


There is Another Sky

by ShanaStoryteller



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Epic, Past Torchwood, Psychic Abilities, Romance, What Have I Done, my baby, this started out as a 5 and 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 81,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShanaStoryteller/pseuds/ShanaStoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto has some secrets, and some talents, and he is more than meets the eye. He was a Junior Researcher at Torchwood One, but that's not the whole story. This is.</p><p>NOTE: THE 11TH CHAPTER IS THE OUTLINE FOR THE REST OF THE STORY WHICH WON'T EVER BE WRITTEN</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

There is another sky

 

There is another sky,  
Ever serene and fair,  
And there is another sunshine,  
Though it be darkness there;  
Never mind faded forests, Austin,  
Never mind silent fields—  
Here is a little forest,  
Whose leaf is ever green;  
Here is a brighter garden,  
Where not a frost has been;  
In its unfading flowers  
I hear the bright bee hum:  
Prithee, my brother,  
Into my garden come!

\- Emily Dickinson

 

 

PART I

Ianto Jones is a Junior Researcher for Torchwood One – for almost two full weeks. He’s recruited into Torchwood not even halfway through his first year at university, December 11th, although his personnel file will read that he’s recruited in 2004 opposed to 1999. Lillian, who’s over twenty years older than him and has a wicked sense of humor and smiles at him bright while everyone around him looks tired and haunted and nearly half crazed, shows him how to set up a paper trail for a life that he can no longer live.

They’re going through his family records to make sure everything adds up, and Ianto keeps his face smooth when the missing child’s report flashes by – it says he’s gone for a week at the age of eight, and it’s the first he’s heard of it. They add a minor shoplifting charge which causes an academic expulsion to explain his sudden disappearance at Oxford, and enroll him at the university in London that has the highest student body and lowest student to faculty ratio. She tells him he’ll have to show up once a week or so to keep up appearances: attend a class, read in the lounge, so if it ever comes up students and teachers will be able to say they remember him, that he existed on more than paper.

“Although if we play this right,” Lillian confides as she shoves a cup of coffee in his direction which smells like heaven in a cup, “you won’t need it. We’re going to make you the most boring, average man to ever be recruited by Torchwood.”

Ianto takes a sip of his coffee, which tastes just as good as it smells. “Isn’t it going be hard to suddenly claim that I was recruited out of university if I’ve been walking around Headquarters for five years?”

Lillian’s look is sly and gleeful, and Ianto wonders if Yvonne put them together because she’d known they’d get along; that he’d feel an instant kinship with this woman that’s only a few years younger than his own mother. It’d be a good idea if she had; the quicker and stronger he becomes entangled in Torchwood the harder it will be for him to ever leave. “You’re forgetting, Ianto Jones, that you and me are above those mere mortals down below. We’re top floor, aren’t we?”

“What does that even mean?” he asks, giving himself a barely passing grade in Welsh because he thinks it’s hilarious.

“We’re better than them,” she says frankly, and Ianto has to stem the automatic protest. His father isn’t looking over his shoulder anymore, and his very presence in this room proves he’s more than some janitor’s son. “You’re seventeen, Ianto. Not even a full adult, and Torchwood’s salivating over you. Your psi rating is off the charts, you’ve been granted Top Secret security clearance because of it, and you beat Yvonne at chess while arguing with the UNIT leader over international trade policies.” She’s solemn for the first time that evening, and Ianto has the feeling she wants to touch his shoulder but holds herself back, “You’re special. Torchwood sees something in that calculating, brilliant mind that they want to cultivate and call their own – you’re top floor. Granted, you’re stuck in the equivalent of the basement of the top floor, but still.” She hesitates for all of two seconds, “Be careful.”

He smiles back at her, nods, and they go back to setting up his fake life. He thinks this, this opportunity to be something more, is better than anything else and worth any risk. But it’s still a comfort to know that someone is apparently watching his back.

*

He’s given Christmas break off, so he can go to his family and explain his cover story of forgetting to pay for a book and walking out of the college store with it and being expelled. He’ll spin it nice, and his Mam will probably cry some, and his father will look at him with a gaze part disappointed but mostly vindicated, and it’ll be okay because he’ll know the truth.

He’s right; he walks out halfway through his mother’s rant and turns his back on his father’s smug eyes. It’s ridiculously cold outside, and he pulls his hoodie tighter across his body to try to preserve some of the heat. He’s not out for long when his older brother sits beside him, dark gaze that has always seen right through him hard on the side of his face. He had known Mam, Tad, and Rhiannon were going to be easy – it was Tegan who was going to be hard to convince.

“You’ve always been the smart one,” he begins, and Ianto hopes that his brother thinks the tension in his shoulders is from the cold.

“You’re a lawyer,” Ianto points out after a beat, after his brother makes it clear he’s waiting for a response.

“If you were a lawyer, and I was facing you in court, I’d lose,” his brother says, and Ianto doesn’t deny it because it’s true, and it’s Tegan alone who he regrets having to lie to.

“I don’t see where this is going,” he says instead.

Tegan steps forward and grasps Ianto’s stiff chin in his equally chilled fingers, turning his younger brother’s head up so he has to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to ask,” he says, “because I’m guessing you can’t tell me or you won’t. But let’s make it clear that I know you’re lying Yan – no way Oxford gets rid of a student like you due to a mistake. That’s not how it works. So I’m guessing you got offered something better than the dream you’ve held ever since you were to my knees, and we’ll leave it at that but for one thing. Whatever it is that’s going on, that you’re doing, you have it under control right? You know what you’re doing?”

Ianto doesn’t insult him by responding immediately, and instead gives it a good minute before nodding once, his brother’s fingers on his face even as his head bobs up and down. “At this thing I’m doing,” he says, voice low, “I found something out.”

Tegan cocks his head to the side, “Yeah?”

Ianto swallows, because he hadn’t planned to bring it up, it’s such a stupid inconsequential thing in the grand scheme of it all. “What happened, the winter after I turned eight years old?”

His brother’s face smoothes and his hand moves from Ianto’s cheek to his shoulder, “Ah. You went missing.” Ianto raises an eyebrow, although it’s less effective than usual – it was Tegan who taught him it after all – but his brother continues anyway, “I was eighteen, and when I came home Mam and Rhiannon and some coppers were at the house. You’d pulled away from Mam when you three were out shopping, yelling about something. You were lost in the crowd, and the police used CCTV footage to track you, but when you got to the Plass and took a corner, we couldn’t find you on the cameras.”

Tegan’s grip was tight, “After a week, Mam and Tad had pretty much given up hope, and then you show up on our doorstep with a lolly in your hand and wearing different clothes. You wouldn’t talk for two weeks after, wouldn’t answer any questions about where you’d been or what happened. You weren’t hurt, acted completely normal once you started talking again, so Mam and Tad said to just pretend that it never happened, and hopefully you’d forget it ever had as you got older.”

Ianto blinks, because that was far, far more information than he’d thought he’d get, and this seems like an odd thing to forget, even if he was eight. The expectant look on Tegan’s face tells Ianto that his brother expects a secret in return for this secret, and thinks furiously for a moment before saying, “I may or may not be James Bond’s less bril cousin.”

Tegan grins but doesn’t laugh, and says, “Alright then,” before letting his hand drop to his side. “We could go back inside and face the music, or I could go buy you some hot chocolate and we can go to the mall and mock all of the last minute Christmas shoppers.”

Ianto’s grin is answer enough, and Tegan laughs and races him to the car. This is why Ianto loves his brother best – because he loves Ianto without needing to understand him. There’s a great kind of power and gift in that, one Ianto hopes he’ll one day be able to give to someone else.

*

He thinks that the hot chocolate would taste better with a tablespoon or so of schnapps, but it’s warm and sweet on his tongue as he and his brother leans against a pillar in the very center of the wall, a terrific place to people watch but a terrible idea architecturally. “Gay,” Ianto calls, and his brother scoffs.

“But look at the legs!”

“Last time I checked, lesbians could have nice legs too.”

“But it’s such a shame,” his brother says mournfully, and Ianto laughs.

“Girl in the red sweater,” he says instead, clicking the stopwatch so it resets and begins again. His brother’s eyes narrow as they focus on the girl a couple of years younger than Ianto, and he hopes no one is looking at them too closely because, now that he thinks about it, they look like total perverts staring intensely at random people as they walk past.

“Straight, with a boyfriend,” Tegan says, but his voice dips into uncertainty at the end. He has a harder time calling girls.

“Fifty seven seconds. Why?” Ianto asks, because he’s right but Ianto wants to know if he can explain it.

“She’s wearing vintage, which is expensive but not mainstream fashion, and, as young as she is, if she were aware she was different then she’d be doing everything she could to fit in. She’s wearing a silver heart locket, likely from a sweetheart, but it clashes with the rest of her jewelry which is gold. Another girl would have paid more attention to what she wore normally and made sure it matched.” Tegan takes a bite of his monster size cookie and breaks off a piece to hand to Ianto, “Did I get it?”

“As far as I can see,” Ianto admits, popping the piece of warm dough in his mouth. This was way better than sitting around an awkward Christmas dinner.

“Hey, what about the time-confused bloke in a blue coat at three o’ clock?”

Ianto has to twist his head around to see (Tegan never remembers that his three o’clock isn’t also Ianto’s) and when he does he nearly chokes. He’s not really into men, is more appreciative of how girls move and smell and sound. The man is easily twice Ianto’s age, but that’s not honestly saying much, with a long blue RAF coat covering everything but the bottoms of his pants and light brown boots.

He has a long suffering look on his face as an Italian woman with frizzy hair drags him to another store, but she must say something amusing because he laughs, and it’s the hottest, most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Flexible,” he says when he remembers that his brother’s waiting for an answer, “he’s not too particular in either direction.”

He disappears around a corner, and Ianto pushes his image out of his mind and picks a gay man for Tegan.

*

“Have a good holiday?” Lillian asks when he walks into her office on the third of the new year. Ianto knows she spent hers decoding a new alien language.

“Not bad,” he says, settling into the chair across from where various photocopied pages and pieces of inscribed metal are thrown about.

“Good,” she pushes various bits of semi-translated pages at him, “you won’t be getting another one anytime soon. Make this make sense in English. Or Welsh, or bloody well Japanese for all I care.”

“What is it?” he asks as he scans it, already starting to see a pattern for the weird swirly dash that that appears between a few reoccurring rectangular symbols in the middle of certain chunks.

“Either a cookbook, or battle plans. Possibly both. Whichever, I’m curious.”

Ianto grins and grabs a pen, “Me too.”

*

Ianto Jones only spends two weeks as a Junior Researcher under Lillian Kale before being put in charge of the archives that you need a retinal scanner and blood sample to be able to access, and then you have fifteen seconds to input the code of the day before you’re locked in a little room that also has little air.

It was a confused, dangerous mess with too many blanks to be safely used in any capacity without more resources, but too classified to bring those resources in.

He had it sorted out before the summer. Lillian buys him a drink and warns him, eyes dark, that if he’s not too careful he’ll become too good at his job. He knows what she means, and knows that he’s walking a dangerous ledge. He should probably take a step back, but God is the sight exhilarating.


	2. Part II

PART II

His second Christmas in Torchwood is hardly worth note – he’d spent it drunkenly decoding Alien signals with Lillian, but they hadn’t written down the key so the next morning they had to try to do sober, with migraines, what they’d managed drunk – but the third is unforgettable. To him at least; he knows for certain that it’s been forgotten by the person he’d most want to remember it. It’s the first time he resents his security clearance.

“Ianto,” Yvonne’s cool voice calls from the monitor somewhere to his left, and he pushes back his chair so he roles in the general direction.

He’s not allowed to wear jeans to work anymore, which is a shame, but on the plus being the son of a tailor (or, well, a janitor with the skills of a tailor) has finally come in handy. He knows how to pick a suit that he can carry well, and how to coordinate shirts and ties and the proper type of cufflinks. He’s wearing the red shirt with matching striped tie and waistcoat, but the sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows, his jacket is probably wrinkled from lying on top of his chair, and the tie’s loosened enough that you can see his collar bone. Not to mention, he’s running on close to forty eight hours without sleep, and he doesn’t even want to think about the number of coffee breaks he’s taken.

“Ma’am,” he greets.

“I need you in my office. Bring anything you’ve found on whatever the hell it is we’re dealing with. Look presentable,” she hesitates, and Ianto knows that he’s the only one she does that with, and only a handful of reasons why she would.

“Would you like me to bring up some fresh coffee as well?” he asks, and she grants him the tiniest of smiles that still feels cold before cutting the connection. He knows this is the reason the rest of the top floor mocks him, but whatever.

When he walks in with a fresh pot of coffee, he nearly drops it. Yvonne is seated at her desk with a tall, handsome man in a long blue RAF coat. He caught a glimpse of the man two years ago, and remembers him still. He puts the coffee service on the corner of her desk, and that’s when they finally turn to look at him.

Ianto can feel the other man’s eyes rake over his frame, and he feels weirdly grateful for the amount of layers the suit has, because even though the only visible bits are his hands and his face, he feels exposed anyway.

“I hadn’t known you’d upgraded to having butlers,” the man says, eyes on Ianto’s throat and he feels like a Victorian girl at his slight triumph that the other man can’t see his clavicle.

“I’m not a butler,” he says, and it comes out a bit sharper than he’d intended.

“Jack,” Yvonne interrupts, “this is the man I was telling you about; meet Senior Archivist and Tactician, Ianto Jones. Ianto, this is Captain Jack Harkness. He runs Torchwood Three in Cardiff.”

“You have an impressive success rate, but your paperwork is a nightmare,” he says the first thing he thinks of and holds out his hand. “I like the coat.”

Jack doesn’t take it, instead he’s put his back to him and is staring at Yvonne with incredulity. “He’s a child! Is this some sort of joke? Is he even part of Torchwood, or is he just some higher up’s kid?”

Yvonne’s face hardens as Ianto bristles. “I’ll have you know, sir, that I’ve been an employee of Torchwood London, Top Floor, for two years and I’m quite competent at my job.” His native accent comes out thicker when he’s angry and Jack seems to take notice.

He’s schooled his face into an impassive mask, “So are you from around Cardiff?”

Ianto wants to protest the change of subject, but can’t think of a way to do so gracefully. “Born and raised, Sir.”

“You don’t have to call him Sir, Ianto,” Yvonne says, eyes still flinty. “In the hierarchy, you’re actually above him.”

Jack turns back to Yvonne, but this time Ianto feel less dismissed and more like Jack is simply shifting his attention. “So, we’re recruiting children now? That’s not blurring any lines of morality or ethics.”

“He’s nineteen,” and this is the first time Ianto’s seen her as anything that could even approach defensive.

“And he’s been working directly under you for two years?” Jack says, “So you’ve had a seventeen year old doing your dirty work for you. What made you think letting a fucking child work on the first floor is a good idea?” Ianto’s just watching now, because he has the feeling the Captain’s anger has less to do with him, and more to do with his circumstances. That doesn’t offend his pride nearly as much.

“Harkness, what’s the average human psi rating?” Yvonne has calmed, but she’s covered in ice.

“One hundred,” he answers.

“What’s yours?”

“Two hundred thirty seven.”

“Ianto,” she continues, her voice still the forced evenness that makes Ianto want to run away because the last time he heard that tone, something blew up, “what is your psi rating?”

“Three hundred and nine,” he answers, and nearly flinches in sympathy when Jack’s head whips around towards him.

“That’s not possible,” he says, “there’s no human record breaking three hundred.”

“And yet,” Yvonne says simply.

Jack darts forward and grabs Ianto’s hand, pressing it into his temple. “Prove it,” he demands.

Ianto begins to feel a curl of uneasiness in his stomach, “I try not to.”

“Why?” he asks, still holding Ianto’s fingers to his skull, “aren’t you curious? No one could lie to you. You could know everything. Secret would be a meaningless word.”

Ianto licks his lips, and the unease has gone to full blown nausea. Yvonne isn’t stepping in, and he doesn’t know why. “Have you ever read 1984, by George Orwell?”

There’s a long pause before Harkness says, “Yes.”

The older man’s gaze is heavy on his now, and Ianto has never felt so young as he does looking into the eyes of Jack Harkness. It’s hard to force his lips to say the words he needs to say, but that’s the thing about needs; you do them even when they’re hard. “He said the last free space for man, the one thing that could never be taken from them, was the few square millimeters rattling around in our skulls. I would not take away a man’s deepest and oldest freedom if I could help it.”

Jack’s grasp on his hand tightens until it’s painful, but Jack doesn’t speak nor move his eyes from the younger man’s, and so neither does Ianto. “He’s too good for you,” he says, and it takes Ianto a disorienting moment to realizing he’s speaking to Yvonne about him. “You’ll ruin him.”

“Or he’ll save us,” she responds, and Ianto feels his face go aflame.

“Do it,” Jack says, pushing Ianto’s fingers harder against the skin of his temple. “You’re not breaking and entering; I’m giving you the key and laying out a welcome mat.”

“But why?” Ianto asks, and he knows his voice sounds desperate and confused and not caring.

“I want to know what you see,” Jack says, and his eyes look just as desperate so Ianto nods, lowers the barriers he keeps up constantly and finds that Harkness is pretty good at this because Ianto falls seamlessly into his mind.

Everyone’s minds are different – his favorite so far is his brother’s, a wide open field and his memories and knowledge etched into the flowers, rocks and trees, and his hopes hidden in the clouds of the sky.

Jack’s is nothing like that. He’s in the middle of a huge room with a dozen doors along the wall. It’s actually a pretty common set up. What makes this different is where there aren’t doors, there are filling cabinets, all of them open and empty, and flung about the room are thousands upon thousands of pages of paper. He picks up a page, sees that it’s an alien language and puts it aside. There’s some in French, and he gathers those up and starts a pile, finds more languages, some that he recognizes and some that he doesn’t, but they’re all distinct enough that they warrant their own piles. He has his stopwatch, internally, when he’s in another person’s mind, and he knows it’s been a little over an hour when large warm hands cover his own.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks, and the expression on his face is one between anger and confusion.

“I’m an Archivist,” Ianto says, and to him that explains everything, but the look on the Captain’s face still speaks of confusion, so he elaborates, “This place is a mess. I need to put it right.”

His expression softens, “I had a Doctor who tried that once. Said he couldn’t do it, maybe this is just the way it’s supposed to be.”

“If this is the way your head was meant to be, you wouldn’t have filing cabinets.”

Jack’s grip on his hands tightens, “Then maybe it’s the way it has to be.”

Ianto shakes his head, and he knows he’s young and surviving Torchwood by the seat of his pants, but he also knows what he can do and what he can’t. “I can put it right; it’s what I’m trained for. I file things.”

“You do a lot more than that, if your position is what Yvonne said it was.”

“But that’s the important part,” he insists, “I can do this. And if I can’t, what have you lost?”

Ianto can feel Jack’s internal struggle; he’s in his head after all. He’s almost tempted to give the man a little nudge into accepting his help, but he meant what he said about not wanting to a violate a man’s freedom, even if it is for his own good.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Ianto smiles at him, a big grin splitting his face in two, and he want to hug Jack, or kiss him, or something, but instead he just bends back over his files. This time the strange languages are all readable to him. He looks back up to thank Jack, but the man has already removed his physical representation from his mind. Ianto could call it back easily enough, but why bother.

Later, he’ll know that he spent ten hours in the captain’s head sorting events, feelings, and memories. He doesn’t know everything about the captain, but he knows enough to make an entire wall of filing cabinets on the 51st century, and dedicates a couple more to Time Agency, and a solid two are filled up with rambled emotions about some sort of doctor. He’s working on auto pilot at this point, and at first when he goes to grab the next piece of Jack Harkness to put in its correct place and there is nothing there, he’s is simply dreadfully confused. But then it occurs to him that he’s finished, that everything is in its proper place.

But its sill not enough, he’s not done yet, and he doesn’t know why. The he realizes that the reason that there was such a mess in the first place is that for some reason things get knocked around in Jack’s head, things don’t want to stay where they belong. This won’t do, so Ianto goes to each filing cabinet, and chants and sweet talks it until it manifests a lock and hands him a key to match. Things don’t typically fall out of locked filing cabinets, so he leaves all these keys strung together and lays them on top of the one that had been hardest to organize, labeled Grey, and slumps up against it.

“Jack,” he calls, just now noticing how weak he is, and remembers why staying in someone’s consciousness for more than a couple of hours is a really really bad idea.

He’s nearly passed out when he feels what have become familiar hands cupping his face, “Can’t fall asleep here, baby,” Jack whispers, his voice unthinkingly tender. “Might be stuck in here forever.”

“I put it right,” he whispers, and it’s like there are weights on his eyelashes.

“You did, Ianto Jones,” he feels himself being picked up bridal style and wants to protest or feel embarrassed, but what he does instead is bury his face in the crook of Jack’s neck and shoulder. “You’ve done the impossible, and you’ll never know how grateful I am.”

Ianto doesn’t want to tell Jack he does – he can feel it in the shape and flavor of his mind. “M’good at the impossible,” he mumbles instead, and feels Jack’s laugh vibrate throughout his whole body.

“I believe you. Think you can take us out here Ianto? It’s kind of important.”

Ianto nods, extracts his mind from Jacks and leaves the other man the sole being inside his own head, as it should be. He’s awake in his own mind and body just long enough to feel chapped, dry lips being pressed to his forehead and hear a choked ‘Thank you’ in his ears before he drifts off.

His last though is that he hopes Jack doesn’t mind that he took the knowledge of the Boeshane language with him – it’s just that it’s so beautiful he didn’t want to forget. It’s a copy, not the original, so Jack will never know, but he figures he can just ask permission when he wakes up, and if the answer is no he can always put it back.

*

He wakes up in the bedroom off of his office, and groans at the dull throb pulsating behind his eyes. “Morning,” Lillian says, and even if Ianto couldn’t hear her, he’d know who it was by the gentle hand she places on his brow.

He lowers the arm he’d thrown over his face and squints at her, “Did I get into a fight with a Weevil and lose?”

She doesn’t laugh or smile, but instead leans down to press a kiss to his forehead and a few painkillers into his hand. He swallows them dry, and sends a thanks to Torchwood, because it’s not even a minute later when they ache begins to lessen. “Did Captain Harkness hurt you?”

Ianto blinks, and for a moment he has no idea what the older women is talking about, but shakes his head after the memories trickle back in, “His head was a mess.”

“And you fixed it?” Lillian asks, because she knows what it’s like to be archivist, the urge to take something apart just so you can put it back together, f knowing the correct word, tool, or piece of information, or at the very least the ability to find it; a place for everything and everything in its place.

“I made it better,” he says, because the word fixed implies that Jack was broken, and Ianto had seen cracks in that dizzying mind of his but no breaks; even his description of ‘righting it’ from last night seems to be a bad fit. There hadn’t been anything wrong, not really, it was just not as good as it could be.

“Did he hurt you?” Lillian asks again.

“No,” he frowns, “why do you keep asking me that? I spent God knows how long swimming in his head trying to organize it – I’m good, Lil, but I’m young. It just took a bit of a toll is all.”

Lillian’s already stood, pulling out a pair of dark jeans from his drawer – all of his suits that he usually kept here he’d already worn – and a green long sleeve. “You’ll want to get dressed and hurry.”

“Why?” he asks, dread curling low even as he pulls off his pajamas to pull on the clothes his friend had thrown at him.

“Yvonne thought the Captain was keeping you in his mind against your will; she’s had him down in the interrogation room for two days and he keeps on insisting he didn’t do anything. If he really didn’t, you want to get to Yvonne before she loses patience.”

Ianto’s out the door before she finishes her sentence, trainers shoved awkwardly on but he doesn’t notice.

He knows they’ll be on the top floor interrogation room – he types in his access codes, and when it beeps denying him admittance he curses in Welsh and types in a different one, and if Yvonne disabled this one he’s going to kill her.

She hasn’t, so he gets his opportunity to storm into the room dramatically.

“Mr. Jones,” one the men on his staff who’s old enough to be his father greets, “It’s good to see you up and about.”

If possible, Ianto’s glare hardens even more at that because Roberts has been angling for his job for months now and everyone knows it. He’s on the opposite side of the two way mirror as Jack, and he growls, “Leave.”

He doesn’t have to pull rank very often now, although when he first started it seemed as if he was forced to do nothing but. Roberts crosses his arms, but Adams is looking guiltily to the side. He’s not that much older that Ianto, and he brings his boss coffee sometimes in the morning, and has stayed late a time or two unasked. Adams likes Mr. Jones, and he’s never done anything close to disobedience when the younger man has that look on his face.

“Now,” Ianto says, and Adams is relieved to note he’s speaking more to Roberts than him.

“Yvonne said to stay here until she came back,” Roberts says evenly.

“That’s Ms. Hartman to you,” Ianto snaps, “and I’ll deal with Yvonne. I’m your direct superior, and I’m giving you an order. You’d do well to obey it if you wish to continue working for Torchwood.”

Roberts pales and darts out after that, because Ianto’s only ever fired one man, during his first month, and the whole Top Floor had waited for Hartman to roll up a newspaper and smack her new puppy in the nose with it. Instead she’d signed the order of termination without reading it and said simply, “Jones knows what he’s doing.” It was perhaps one of the only reasons Ianto gets any of the respect his position says he deserves.

Adams hesitates by his boss’s side, and Ianto softens and grins at the other man, “How’s the reconstruction of the blobby thing going?”

Adams grins back, and gives a quick “Very well,” before darting out the door. Ianto muses that maybe he should pay him a closer attention, and then remembers that he’s in this bloody room for a reason. He looks through the mirror, and Jack looks like hell in some ways – he’s wearing the same clothes as he was over two days ago, there’s a light bruise along the side of his face and smattering of the purple-blue dots over his hands, and the skin of his face and hands is tight with dehydration. But on the other hand, Ianto can see his hard work hasn’t been wasted in the lightness in his eyes and the set of his shoulders; it’s the look of a man who’s been released of a burden he’s become too used to carrying.

He doesn’t think about it, just opens the door to the side and steps in, letting the lock click shut behind him. Jack doesn’t look up right away, and Ianto takes those seconds to lock the door behind him with his personal code – only Lillian, a handful of Security agents, and Yvonne can override it. Sometimes, being the black sheep of this place has its benefits, because if he doesn’t work very closely with the other departments, then he doesn’t answer to them either. Just as he enters the last digit, the captain raises his head.

“Ianto!” he calls, and tries to stand from the chair but his long sleeves have hidden that he’s cuffed to the arms of his chair by both hands. He sits back down, but his blue eyes are drinking in the sight of Ianto like a man dying of thirst. “I was worried about you.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he says briskly, crossing the room and pushing up the sleeves of Jack’s shirt. They’re not the regular handcuffs, but state of the art ones that he’d collaborated with their head of Security – Jane Kingston, scary as fuck that woman is – a handful of months ago to get authorized. He can feel Jack’s gaze on him heavy, but he can’t shake the wrongness of seeing this man tied down. He doesn’t remember much more than vague outlines of memories from Jack’s head but he remembers enough that he knows the feeling of being restrained is Not Good, even if he can’t say why. “Who locked you?”

Jack thinks he’s talking to him and starts to answer but the cuffs cut him off, “Yvonne Hartman.”

Jack blinks, looking bemused at his bound wrists. “Ianto Jones is overriding Yvonne Hartman’s command.”

“You can do that?” Jack demands, and Ianto shrugs.

“Override denied,” it responds, and Jack deflates a little.

“Installer Ianto Jones Override Beta,” Ianto snaps, annoyed that he’s had to use two different backup codes in the span of twenty minutes.

“Override accepted,” it gives after a moment, and for fuck’s sake even the non AI machinery is wary of the Torchwood One leader. They spring from Jack’s wrists and Ianto moves to set them on the table, but Jack knocks them aside to take both of the younger man’s hands in his own.

“Ianto,” he says, urgent and pleading.

Ianto tugs his hands away and Jack lets him, “One more thing,” the Welshman says gently. Jack nods, but his lips are pressed into a tight line. He lays his hand against an invisible panel in the wall, and it flips over to reveal video screen. “Ianto Jones calling Yvonne Hartman – send to Control Panel closest to recipient’s location.”

“One moment, Mr. Jones,” and Ianto ignores the low chuckle that prompts out of Jack.

“You know,” he says, “in my time Ianto Jones is a powerful name that belongs to a powerful man. Seems to be a universal constant.”

Ianto makes a distracted noise to show that he’s listening, but when the light switches to green all his attention becomes focused onto the panel.

“Ianto?” Yvonne’s face fills the panel not thirty seconds later, “What are you doing?”

“Captain Harkness did not harm me, I was just tired. As such, he has committed no crime and as the visiting leader of Torchwood Three it’s hardly befitting that he be entertained in our interrogation room.”

Books could be written about what Ianto isn’t saying, and they both know it. “It would be favorable if he were to stay on the base for the time being.”

“You know where my rooms are,” Ianto says curtly, because he knows the reason Harkness can’t leave yet even if he’s trying to not think about it.

“Very well,” and Ianto’s about to cut the connection when she continues, “And Ianto? Your hunch panned out. They are closely enough related to the Girdonians that using liquid plutonian was enough to knock them out. The situation’s been neutralized. Good job,” and it’s her that’s cutting out on him.

He laughs and turns to Jack, “Alright, I’m done. I’m assuming you want to talk, but I’m also assuming that you’re ready to die for a hot shower, a change of clothes, and something to eat and drink?”

Jack hesitates, but nods.

“Great, follow me,” he keys in the code to undo the lock, and isn’t surprised to open the door and find two of his combat trained men waiting on the other side.

“Don’t do that!” Joey says, and Rachel nods her agreement, arms crossed. “Everything good?”

He can feel Jack’s much larger presence against his back and assures them everything is fine and to go back to their jobs, he’ll be back to riding their asses tomorrow.

“They listen to you,” Jack comments as Ianto leads him through his office to the bookshelf.

“Now,” Ianto clarifies, and grins as he sides a book out of place and it there’s a series of soft clicks and it whooshes open. He looks back at Jack, who’s clearly amused, and explains, “It’s what it’s always been in movies. Yvonne thought I was nutters for asking for it to be set up this way, but she just signed off on it and went with it. Lillian agrees that it’s the coolest thing ever, so we win.”

“Fair enough,” Jack says softly as he pulls the bookcase shut behind him. There’s a small flat in the back, set up studio style with a large bed, medium kitchen, and a basically nonexistent living room.

“Showers that way,” Ianto points ahead while he walks to small chest of drawers, “I’ll find something clean for you to wear,” he looks dubiously down at himself and then at Jack, comparing his lithe, muscular frame to Jack’s bulkier, taller one.

“Do you live here?” Jack asks, and there’s a sad note to his voice.

Ianto pulls a face, “No. Well, about a third of the time, which is why I have it in the first place, but I’m mostly at my own flat a few miles away assuming that the world isn’t about to end or anything. Much classier than this place,” Ianto confides with a wink and the cloud seems to lift from Jack’s face before he goes into the bathroom and begins to strip. He doesn’t close the door, and Ianto doesn’t have the self control necessary for him not to take a peek. Later he’ll wonder if Jack did it on purpose, and later than even that he’ll confess that he did.

He sticks some sweats and a tshirt that he thinks might fit Jack on top of the toilette and begins to make some coffee, even though he knows it’d be better if he made it in the big machine down the hall but he doesn’t want to leave Jack alone. He also grabs bread, cheese, and butter and decides that if the great Captain Jack is above some cheese toasties then he’s not welcome with Ianto anyway.

“Finished,” Jack says softly at his back fifteen minutes later, and the sweatpants which are huge on Ianto aren’t a terrible fit on Jack, and the shirts looks a little tight in the arms and shoulders, but it’ll do.

“Have some food and water, then if you’re good you can have coffee,” Ianto says blandly, holding out a plate with three sandwiches in one hand and an entire water jug in the other. Jack narrows his eyes at the tone, but the smile on the younger man’s face makes it clear he’s just teasing Jack a little.

“Thank you,” he says gingerly, looking for a place to sit down.

“Just take the bed,” Ianto waves, “wasting space on a table seemed impractical.” He’s working his way through his own pile of sandwiches and gallon of water.

Jack lowers himself onto the side of the bed, and the look on his face when he takes his first bite may only be described in politely company as satisfied, “Haven’t had one of these in years.”

“Young single male prerogative,” Ianto shrugs, “my culinary skill is basically limited to cheese toasties, pasta, and eggs.”

“There are worse repertoires to have,” Jack’s already half way through his second sandwich. “So. You fixed me.”

“You weren’t broken,” Ianto says automatically, and misses the startled shape of Jack’s eyes in response, “I just organized things a bit.”

No one says anything for a long moment. “I’m not from around here.”

“Fifty first century, Boeshane Peninsula,” Ianto responds, “There were a ton of cabinets labeled that time period and place, sorry.” He remembers his last thought before passing out and continues, “Crap. I copied and took the Boeshane language with me when I left. I’d almost forgotten. Would you like it back?”

“I still know it,” Jack says.

“I just made a copy; I wouldn’t have taken it from you. I know I shouldn’t have without asking, but I’m asking now. It’s such a beautiful language Jack.”

“Keep it,” Jack says immediately, “seems only fair, after all.”

Ianto nods, and seeing that Jack’s plate is empty, knows he’s going to have to tell him soon. “Everything working good up there?”

Jack smiles and says, “I remember how my mother smells, and the time that I got into a fight with my best friend in grade school. I remember a day spent playing chess with the Doctor that I’d forgotten and the first time I ended up kissing John in the Academy, how could I have forgotten that?”

“It happens, when things don’t get organized,” Ianto says gently, and then, “You know, I’m not known to people that aren’t Top Floor. Yvonne read you in and all, but the whole mind manipulation part? That’s need to know information.”

Jack doesn’t get it at first, but then he looks between the water jug and empty plate and lets out a laugh sharp and bitter. “How much time will I lose?”

Ianto had half expected the man to lunge at him, and relaxes when he realizes the only thing being thrown in his way is an acerbic glare. “None. It’ll kick in about six hours from now, give or take. It’s keyed to me – you’ll remember everything about the past few days, you’ll know that you met me, you just won’t know who I am. No sleeping pills either, if you were wondering.”

Jack swallows, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Ianto shrugs, and doesn’t tense when Jack stands and makes his way over to him, bracing his hands on either side of Ianto, grasping the counter tight. Ianto tips his head back to look him in the eye, “Maybe. But I won’t have a Torchwood leader running around with chunks of his memory missing. You came here to help us out with unidentified alien life forms, not to be abused. Besides, what Yvonne doesn’t know won’t hurt her – as far as she’s concerned I’m giving you the good stuff.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long moment, letting his turquoise gaze pierce Ianto’s ice blue one. “You really are too good for Torchwood,” he murmurs.

“I’m not,” Ianto responds, and can’t say why he’s whispering. “Just because I have more of conscious than the average Top Floor member says nothing, and you know it.”

Jack snorts, and lets his head drop a few inches, “Can I kiss you, Mr. Jones?”

Jack’s older than him, around his late thirties or early forties, and he should tell him no, push the older man away, but instead he says, “You’re asking permission?”

He feels the light pressure of the other man’s lips against line of his jaw, “You don’t seem to be the type of person that allows things to be taken from him.”

Ianto sighs, and has the thought of how incredible fucked up this is. Jack won’t remember him in the morning, can’t, and he’s been rummaging about in the other man’s head, has spent less than a day with this man and feels this startling, painful pull towards him.

Fuck it all. He hasn’t gotten laid in months, and the stress of running his own goddamn department on the top floor of fucking Torchwood One has probably made him half mad and he’s nineteen years old and doesn’t want to have to be rational, responsible, or think and that’s what he does all day, every day. Jack’s lips are leaving his jaw as he begins to draw back a little and nope, no, that’s not what Ianto wants at all.

“You can take,” Ianto says without thinking about the words that are coming out of his mouth. When he plays them over in his mind he flushes, but doesn’t take them back. Jack’s stilled, head tilted to the side. “You don’t need permission, you can just take, damnit Harkness, take me, why don’t you?”

There’s a challenge in his words, and an angry stubborn need welling up in Ianto, but when Jack kisses him it’s tender as he runs his hands up and down the younger man’s arms. He tries to make the kiss harder, but Jack keeps it slow and deep. Ianto’s breathing is ragged when they break. “You’ve given me a gift, Ianto Jones,” he settles his hands on Ianto hips and he feels as if they’re branding his skin, “won’t you allow me to give you one in return?”

Ianto closes his eyes and nods, allowing Jack to lead him back and tip him over onto the bed. He takes it slow, worshipping every inch of Ianto’s skin that he uncovers with his hands or his mouth, or both. It’s a wonderful, painful time later when he whispers into Ianto’s ear, “Which way?”

Ianto’s doesn’t go for guys often, and when he does he always tops, but repeats his earlier statement of “Take me” into Jack’s mouth.

“You sure?” the older man asks, and Ianto tilts his hips so his naked crotch meets Jack’s and he can feel how sure he is. Jack gasps sharp, and lets it out in a sigh that shudders. “Condom?”

“I’m clean,” Ianto latches on to the patch of skin below Jack’s ear, “You?” Jack attempts to nod, but moans instead. “Then I’m good without.”

Jack’s around the same size as Ianto, if anything a little bigger, and he pushes in slow, and he’s done such a good job preparing him that it doesn’t even hurt. “Good?” he asks when he’s fully sheathed.

“Good God, Jack,” Ianto chokes, “move.”

He does, keeping his pace steady and slow even when Ianto begs him not to and he can feel the efforts it’s costing him in the shaking of Jack’s thighs. His orgasm nearly sneaks up on him, and he’s coming as he yelps out Jack’s name and a moment after he hears a deep groan and feels Jack coming inside him.

A handful of minutes later Jack is lying on Ianto’s chest, taking deep breaths. “I don’t want to forget you.”

Ianto squeezes his eyes shut because this is ridiculous, they barely know each other, but he doesn’t want Jack to forget him either. “I’m sorry.”

Jack settles a hand over Ianto’s heart and the younger man covers it with his own, “Me too.”

They have sex twice more before Jack has to go, and he kisses Ianto long and hard wearing the other man’s clothing. “Goodbye, Ianto Jones.”

“Goodbye Jack,” Ianto says, and lets the other man leave while he breathes harsh and tries not to cry.

*

He finds out that he slept through Christmas, but on New Year’s Eve he gets completely sloshed and tells Lillian everything. “Oh, love,” she murmurs.

“I know,” he says, taking another shot of tequila, “I do, really.”


	3. Part III

IT'S DECEMBER HAVE AN EARLY UPDATE!!!!

 

PART III

The next year when Yvonne tell him he can have three days off for Christmas he laughs, and sputters when he realizes she's serious.

That was about two hours ago, and now he’s back at his flat with his mobile pressed to his ear. “You will not believe what I’m about to tell you,” he says when the near silent click of the phone being answered registers.

“You’re a hermaphrodite?”

Ianto actually stops packing to pull his phone back and stare at it a moment before putting it back against his ear. “No.”

“Ah. Shame, that,” Tegan muses.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Nothing much, going over to Jenny’s friend’s and letting the kids run wild.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Ianto asks, noting that he needs to grab some tissue paper to put Mica’s sweater in.

“Seriously?” Tegan says, a bit of excitement creeping into his voice, “You’re actually free from whatever top secret stuff you’re usually busy doing?”

They’ve progressed to openly acknowledging that Ianto doesn’t attend university like the rest of the family believes, but Tegan doesn’t ask and Ianto doesn’t tell.

“Only the 24th through the 27th, but it’s more than I was expecting.”

“Come on down,” he says enthusiastically, “the kids will think seeing Uncle Ianto is the best Christmas present ever.”

“A bit of an exaggeration,” he says, zipping his suitcase closed, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Can’t wait,” his brother assures.

 

*

When he knocks on the door, it’s opened and he’s assaulted by two little boys’ cry of “Ewythr Ianto! Ewythr Ianto!” He drops his bags and goes to his knees, gathering the two little boys tight to his chest. Six and eight, they’re all sharp elbows and knees. They throw their arms around his neck and he nearly jokes on his laughter and joy.

“Alright, let’s allow Ewythr Ianto to breath, shall we?” Tegan calls, and they protest even as they do as they’re told.

“No longer a teenager, little brother,” he teases as he grabs Ianto in a hug and ruffles his hair, “I would have seen you on your birthday if, you know, I ever saw you.” Ianto shrugs apologetically and feels a little stab of guilt even though it’s meant in jest. He’s gotten into more than one argument with his mother and sister about why he’s never home, why he never has time to talk, and why it is that he’s apparently being run ragged at a no name university when he’d balanced Oxford and a being a waiter before. Both Rhiannon and his Mam have tried to talk to him about drugs, and if that wasn’t a conversation he never needed to have again. 

Tegan must sense his change in mood, because he lays a quick, sloppy kiss to his cheek causing Ianto to laugh and pull away, “Knock it off, or I’m keeping your present!”

And like that his brother a decade older than him is on his knees poking at Ianto’s bag, “Yeah? What’d you get me?” and he looks up with a grin a mile wide.

Ianto laughs, and if there are some tears in there when Jenny envelopes him in a hug she’s enough of a doll not to mention it. God, he’s missed this.

*

It’s about four in the morning the next night when his phone starts ringing loud enough to wake the dead, and he thinks that is was nice while it lasted before he flips open his mobile, “Yeah?”

There’s a half second hesitation on the other end before a light, accented female voice says, “I think I have the wrong number.”

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand, “If you weren’t either calling me from a Torchwood base or had Yvonne or one of my men patch you through personally, my phone wouldn’t have rang and I’d still be asleep now. You have the right number.”

“Of course,” she says, “I’m Toshiko Sato-”

“Torchwood Three, Cardiff,” he says immediately, wide awake now as he wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear to pull on a pair of trousers, “Computer specialist, I’ve read your file, very impressive. I’m going to assume the Captain isn’t there?” His mini-vacation makes a lot more sense.

“Jack’s in London,” she says, and he was right, “there’s an attack on our firewalls, but I don’t have the clearance to follow it. London told me you were the closest agent with a high enough clearance.”

He can hear the frustrated helplessness in her voice as he shoves on his shoes and grabs a suit jacket, deciding he can forgo the tie given the circumstances. “I can give you temporary access until I arrive – it’ll only buy you fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Hold the phone up to the voice recorder on your monitor, tell me when,” he instructs, and he pushes his hand into the bowl on the table to fish out his brother’s keys.

“When,” she says.

“IJAT General Override, voice through electronic device, eliminate manual input code with override 784922745,” he instructs, and turns around and nearly knocks over his brother who has his arms crossed and his lips pulled down at the corners. Ianto holds up hand, “Are you in?”

“Yes,” she says, and he can tell he has about a tenth of her attention, if that.

“I’m on my way. If my code should expire before I arrive do not attempt to continue evasive maneuvers.”

“But the mainframe-!”

“That’s an order,” he barks, and winces as he does it because he’s not good at this sort of thing, “Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she answers, voice tinged in frost, “Do hurry, sir.” She cuts the connection.

He sighs and flips the phone shut, turning to face his brother. “Tegan I’m sorry, really, but I have to take care of this. I need your car. I’ll try to make this fast.”

His brother’s face is unreadable, which means he’s either terrified or furious, and Ianto’s not sure which he’d rather it be. “Dangerous?”

Terrified then. “No,” he says, settling his hand on Tegan’s elbow. “Just a computer thing that they need me to help take care of. Nothing to worry over.” He nods but doesn’t say anything, and Ianto resorts to pleading, “I have to go.”

Tegan steps out of the way, and says quietly as Ianto darts past, “Call me when you can, yeah? I worry, is all.”

Ianto wants to reassure him, but doesn’t have the time, so he turns and nods sharply before pulling the door shut behind him.

*

The polite thing to do would be to buzz Ms. Sato and have her let him in, but they don’t have the time for that. He goes to the wall and feels for the keypad and inputs his identification number. It slides open to admit him, and he does the same at the next three gateways and has to strain his memory to remember the blueprints of this place he’d looked over.

He knows he’s close when he hears a frustrated male yelling, “Why have you stopped? Tosh, they’re going to get into our fucking mainframe!”

“London’s man told me to stop and wait!” Ms. Sato responds, and he lets out a relieved breath now that he knows she’s listened.

“Yes, terribly sorry,” he says, walking through the door and making a beeline for computer station next to the pretty Japanese woman. She nods as he leans over her to take over her keyboard, typing in a long string of code that he doesn’t know half the meaning of, just that it works. When the screen clears he barely has time to move out of the way before she’s back at her keyboard, working to stop whatever force is threatening Torchwood. He removes the stopwatch from his pocket and sets it. “When you get to the next level of security, I’ll need to give you access again,” he warns, sitting down at the computer next to her and pulling up a feed.

“Excuse me,” the same male that was yelling earlier said, affront raising his voice, “but who the bloody hell are you?”

Ianto knows this is important, but knows also that it’ll take Ms. Sato another twenty minutes to need him again, and his mother raised him with some manners. “My apologies,” he says, standing and turning to face the other man. He holds out his hand, “Dr. Harper, I presume? Your professional background and abilities are well noted. I have a friend in medical that practically salivated over anatomical discussion paper you sent to us about the resistance in weevil skin,” he grins, “I don’t see the appeal myself, I’m afraid. I’m Jones.”

“Jones,” the other man says, taking his hand in a firm grip even as his eyes have softened at the praise, “bit young, aren’t you?”

Ianto shrugs, “It’s Torchwood, Doctor. The accepted is often thrown out the window.”

“You good at your job?” Dr. Harper asks, although not for the specifics of what that job is.

“Very,” he assures. It’s true after all.

Harper says, “Alright then,” and Ianto barely notices the Italian woman he’d seen with Jack years ago, standing far off to the left. He nods and she nods back, and then he’s back in the chair pulling up the contacts that he needs. He knows as soon as Sato gets to the higher levels, she’s going to need some help.

“Jones to Kale,” he says, pleased that the Cardiff set up is almost identically up to date as London’s – probably Ms. Sato’s doing. “Urgent, level tangerine.”

“Tangerine?” Harper asks, and Ianto has to bite down on grin.

“We were drunk at the time,” he explains, and for some reason is pleased at the startled laugh that elicits from the older man.

“Jones?” Lillian’s tired face fills the screen, although he’s relieved she’s remembered not to use his full name.

“Wakey wakey Kale,” he says with forced cheer, “connect yourself to Agent Toshiko Sato’s computer, based in Cardiff.”

She frowns and her eyes turn from him to a different part of her screen, “Okay, I’m in and – Holy shit! Who’s doing this?”

“Ms. Sato,” he says, already pulling up some strings to connect him to a different person while maintaining his connection to Lillian.

“She’s brilliant! Can you steal her and take her back to London?”

“I don’t think Captain Harkness would appreciate it,” he says, “now if you could focus please?”

“Sorry, right, aliens attacking the mainframe, very important.” She pauses, “Why am I here?”

“The higher levels are in alien languages – I need you to translate it into binary for Sato,” he pauses, calling over, “Ms. Sato, you can read binary, can’t you?”

“Don’t insult me,” she says absently.

“Apologies,” he returns to Lillian, “you’re the only one who knows all the languages. I could probably manage the lower level ones, but I need to keep inputting my codes so the computer doesn’t blow up.”

He hopes the rest of them think it’s a joke, even though it’s really really not.

“Of course, but Jones, if we got to the top level – and I pray to god we don’t – then I’m no good. The only people on the bloody planet who can work out that mess are you and Harkness, and if you’re putting in freeze codes-”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he says firmly, not voicing the thought that if this alien force can make it to their top level of firewalls, then they’re probably fucked to hell anyway.

“Alright,” she says, “are you getting-?”

“On it,” he says, and then Ms. Sato calls out, “Jones! I need you!”

He bolts from his seat, takes a moment to note the section she’s in and inputs another long sequence of nonsense. He notices it took her seventeen minutes and thirty three seconds – very impressive. He presses reset, “Take the headset. Ms. Kale is going to make this readable for you.”

She nods, slipping it on, and Ianto goes back to bulldozing his way through standard operating procedure in order to get into contact with “Roberts! If you don’t bloody well answer this I’m going to pull your intestines out your arse, do you hear me?”

He doesn’t see both Owen and Suzie’s start at the polite, charming man swearing a blue streak into his headset.

“Sir?” another sleepy voice answers, but it’s not Roberts.

“Adams?!” he demands, “you and Roberts are – with him? – but he’s so . . . so, oh nevermind! My brain can implode later. Get your boyfriend over here!”

“S’not my boyfriend,” Adams yawns, but a minute later Roberts’s cranky face is taking up another corner of the screen.

“Yes, Mr. Jones?”

“Alien force attacking Torchwood Mainframe in Cardiff, I need you to work to attack it from the London angle.”

“I’m not qualified to do that,” Roberts answers, looking more awake now.

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re officially qualified for – I’ve read your file. You’re not the best, that’s apparently here in Cardiff, but you’ll do.” It physically pains him to spit out the next sentence, “Regardless, besides myself, you knows the Archives better than anyone else. You’ll know which files are in need of the most protection.”

“On it sir,” Roberts’s face had turned smug, and god, Ianto really wishes he could punch him in the face when he gets back home. Except that would probably piss off Adams, and Ianto likes Adams, damnit. They go out for drinks.

Right when he thinks he can take a deep breath, Ms. Sato, shouts “Jones!” and he’s nearly upturning his chair in his haste to make it to her side and punching in another code. Twenty eight minutes and seventeen seconds this time, still impressive. “We’re nearly caught up to them, Mr. Jones,” she says breathlessly, and he knows that this is high stress and pressure on her, but she’s good at it, so she’s practically glowing with exhilaration.

“Excellent work, Ms. Sato,” he murmurs, then looks at her screen and he knows this part of firewall is bloody massive – it’s been on somebody’s to do list to break it up into smaller chunks since before Ianto was recruited – and knows he has a couple spare minutes. “Coffee, anyone?”

Dr. Harper laughs, “An alien force is attempting to tear down Torchwood from the inside, and you want to make some coffee?”

“Spend a month at Torchwood London. They always attack us first – you wouldn’t believe the amount of times it has happened since I joined up. Now – coffee?”

“Yes please,” who he knows to be Suzie Costello says, pointing to around the corner, “kitchen’s back there.”

“Great!” he claps his hands, “you’ll let me know if the world comes any closer to collapsing?”

“Of course,” her face is serious, but he thinks she’s secretly finding this hilarious.

He finds the kitchen easily enough, and curses when he realizes it’s already after six – how the bloody hell had that happened? – and he dumps out the coffee dregs left out in the current, cheap Mr. Coffee (there’s a wonderful Planet 75 espresso machine in the corner, why is it that no one is using it? Surely Jack must know how). He wrinkles his nose at the brand of coffee on the counter, and goes scrounging in the cabinets in the hope there’s something here that won’t cause his taste buds to die in revulsion. When he finds it, he starts scooping it in with one hand, and uses the other to call his brother, knowing it’s too early to do so, but equally unsure about when his next opportunity to do so will be.

It’s barely halfway through the second ring when his brother answers, voice tight, “Ianto?”

“Yes?” he replies, startled. His brother sounds wide awake and tense.

“Are you all right?”

Ianto pours in enough water for them each to have two cups. “Yes, of course. I told you it’s not dangerous.”

“Well what the bloody hell am I supposed to think when my brother is pulled from his bed at four in mother fucking morning, barking orders into his phone like he’s some fucking general in MI6?!” his brother yells, and Ianto only presses the ‘Brew’ button with half a mind.

The rest feels small and chastised, and this is goddamn job, but Tegan’s the understanding one, his older brother who he trusts and who trusts him. If he feels painfully young and out of his depth, he does his best to pretend that it isn’t because he is. “Tegan?” he says, voice sounding small even to his own ears after nearly minute of his brother’s harsh breathing.

Tegan sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Ianto,” but he doesn’t sound anything besides pissed, and Ianto begins to worry a stain on the counter with his finger. “It’s just you, whatever it is that you do-”

“I can’t tell you,” he interrupts, “I promise you that if I could I would, God, the things I’d tell you, but I can’t kua’ana.” He blinks, because he doesn’t think he’s used that term since he was a child, and Tegan must realize it too because he barks a laugh.

“I know, Yan,” he slips back into his own nickname for his little brother, and Ianto relaxes, “but this isn’t easy on me. You’re my younger brother, Christ, you used to crawl in bed with me during thunderstorms or when you had a nightmare. When you were seven I had to check under your bed every night to make sure there weren’t any monsters there, because you didn’t trust anyone else to do it right.”

Ianto can hear the frustration in his voice, and suddenly it all clicks, and as he pours the coffee, and fixes each cup from what he remembers the specifications to be in their files – cream and sugar for Costello, cream no sugar for Harper, and black for Sato – he relaxes even further because he gets it now. “Can’t protect me from monsters if you don’t know what they are and I go charging to face them myself, can you?”

The long silence on the other end tells him he’s right, and he can’t find a tray so he grabs a random checkers board, it’s the kind that you get for five dollars at the local all purpose store, and folds it in half to put the mugs on. “I worry,” his brother says finally, “I can’t help it. I’ve done it all your life, all Rhiannon’s, and I can’t stop now.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he assures, a smile tugging at his lips, “I can’t even tell you that you don’t have reason to do it. But I’m careful as I can be, all the time, all right?”

“All right,” he says, “you have to go now, don’t you?”

“’Fraid so. I’ll call you when I can next, yeah?”

“You better,” Tegan says, and he’s trying to make it playful but knows it’s comes across as serious, “Bye Yan.”

“Bye kua’ana,” he says before hanging up and slipping the phone into his pocket. He picks up the tray and turns around. He nearly upturns the board when he jumps in surprise, but manages to keep it steady. “Dr. Harper,” he greets the other man that’s leaning against door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and an introspective look on his face. “How long have you been there?”

“Kua’ana is Welsh for big brother, isn’t it?” he asks instead of answering the question.

“Yes,” Ianto answers, clutching the frayed edges of the chess board so his knuckles turn white.

“How old are you Jones?” there isn’t a challenge in the question, just simply curiosity, and Ianto figures it won’t kill him to indulge that. Besides, not answering will be just as telling as the truth.

“Twenty this past August,” he says, and keeps his face impassive when Harper swears.

“I was getting drunk and screwing birds at your age,” he says, and Ianto smirks.

“Surprisingly, there’s an awful lot of that at Torchwood One too.”

Harper cracks a smile, but it droops back into a frown, “With the suits, and they way you talk, hell even the way you act, I never would have guessed so young.”

“Yes, well,” Ianto clears his throat, “that’s kind of the point.”

Dr. Harper stares at Ianto a long moment, not saying anything, and he meets his gaze evenly with a quirk of his eyebrow. “One of those for me?” Harper asks, tilting his chin to the makeshift tray in Ianto’s hands.

“The red one on your left,” he answers, and grins when he takes a small sip and moans.

“Bloody hell,” he says, “did Torchwood hire you for your coffee?”

“Kale actually taught me how, but there was a week when all I did was alphabetize requests for leave back from the thirties, and I screwed around with the coffee not to go mad. Now Yvonne says even if she wanted to fire me, she couldn’t because there’d be a revolt over the lack of coffee.”

Harper’s still smiling, but the introspective look is back, “Yvonne, huh? Not Director Hartman?”

Ianto shrugs, and Harper falls in step beside him as he walks back to the main part of the Hub, “I work with her very closely.”

There’s a look of mild disgust on Harper’s face and when Ianto figures out why it’s reflected on his own, “Oh god no, not to save my life, I don’t even think she knows how. I meant it when I said I was good at my job Dr. Harper, I don’t have a need to sleep my way to the top.”

Harper nods, not answering verbally because they’re back among the girls. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost, Mr. Jones,” Suzie teases and accepts the mug he hands her.

“It was a near thing,” he says deadpan, and feels accomplished when she smiles. “How we doing, Ms. Sato?” he puts her mug on the corner of her desk, and discards the chess board so he can cradle his own.

“We’re nearly at the same point, as soon as I deal with them in this section, we move from to defensive to offensive at the next level.”

“Brilliant,” he takes a sip of his coffee, and hides his grimace. It’s not bad, but if Harper reacted so well to it he’d hate to have to drink whatever they normally pass off as coffee in this place. “How long?”

She does something that’s far too complicated for him to follow, and says, “Now.”

He blinks, and leans in close to her so he can speak into her headset, “Jones seventy nine thirty four six five twenty three,” even as he types in a different code, and it’s a good thing Torchwood doesn’t have sexual harassment rules because he’s pretty sure the way he’s managed to contort himself around her to accomplish this would count. Forty two minutes and fifty three seconds, and if records were kept of this kind of thing he’s pretty sure Ms. Sato would have just annihilated them.

He steps back and she goes back to attacking her keyboard, and he’s about to take another sip when she makes a frustrated, surprised yelp. “Ms. Sato?”

“They’ve blocked me out!”

“An outside force wouldn’t be able to do that unless they’d already broken through to the top level,” he leans closer.

“Not whoever we’re fighting,” she spits, turning to face him with narrowed eyes, “London.”

He nearly drops his mug in surprise, and when he squashes himself back into her personal space she doesn’t complain. “Bloody hell,” he breathes, and growls, “I’m going to fucking kill someone for making me use this,” and pulls the headset from Sato’s head to put it onto his own.

“Ianto Jones Top Floor Torchwood One, London, Head Archivist and Tactician” he says, and can feel the eyes of the others on his, and that he has to reveal this, that means he’ll be adding something extra to their second cup of coffee, and that kills him.

“Recognized,” Sato informs him.

He takes a deep breath before continuing, grasping at the Boeshane language that Torchwood had re-encrypted itself with in the fifties – nothing safer than using a language only one man can speak. He speaks his code, forces out whatever London force is working against this, and the vowels are nearly Welsh, but the constantans are too smooth for comfort and if one were to try to explain the grammatical structure to someone who hadn’t been raised knowing it then it would be near impossible. He loves this language even though he has no use for it beyond this, a use no one beside him, Yvonne, and Lillian are cleared to know, and it pisses him off.

“You’re back in,” he says, “now crush them before they get to the next part.”

She doesn’t acknowledge his order, just follows it, and his movement are stiff and harsh as he grabs the mug and downs the coffee, the large gulp scalding his tongue. “You’re top floor?” Costello asks, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it confirmed.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

He’s going to have to retcon them anyway at this point, so it doesn’t even matter, “Three years.”

Sato doesn’t react, too focused, and Costello just looks contemplative, but it’s Harper who has paled and is looking at him stunned. He doesn’t want to know what the other man thinks about a seventeen year old working Top Floor, but he can guess is from way he’s clenching his fists hard enough for his nails to draw blood if he keeps at it.

Ethical, maybe even moral, these Torchwood Three people are.

He’s alerted to Sato’s success by her pushing her chair back so hard it falls as she jumps up and down and claps her hands. “I did it! I did it!”

“The Torchwood mainframe is completely secure?” he asks, feeling unaccountably drained.

“Yes, everything! I’ll be able to backtrack and see if we have a match for type of alien based on their hacking style.” The way she’s looking back at the screen makes it clear she’s tempted to start on it now.

“Excellent,” he says, “be sure to send the report to London.”

“So are we going to go do something?” Costello asks, “This isn’t exactly how I planned on spending my Christmas morning.”

“We free to go?” Harper asks, still looking at Ianto with that intense gaze.

“Of course, would you like me to put the coffee in to go cups for you?” They get uncomfortable looks on their faces, like they’re not sure about how they feel about a Top Floor man making them bloody coffee, so he collects their cups, “I’ll take that as a yes. One moment please.”

He adds the drug as he pours each in Styrofoam mug, the same as he gave Jack last year, and he bloody well hopes this isn’t a pattern.

“Would you feel uncomfortable if I stayed behind to tie up a few loose ends? I can do it when I go back to London, but this would be simpler,” they all have their coats on, and their hands are wrapped around the mugs.

“Go ahead,” Costello shrugs, “you know how to lock up, right?”

He nods.

“See you around, Jones,” she says, and turns and walks away.

“Thank you for your help,” Sato says.

He shakes his head, “Thank you. You are incredibly gifted.”

“Yes, well,” she blushes, “thank you.”

He doesn’t know what Harper wants to say to him, but in the end the older man just gives him a firm shake and a casual, “Take care, mate.”

He’s alone in the Hub now, and he feels four times his age when he sits back in front of the monitor, both Roberts and Lillian still connected.

“Who the fuck tried to stop us from London?” he demands of them both, and they both shake their heads.

“We were working on it,” Roberts says, “but whoever it is, they’re above our pay grade or excellent at hiding their tracts.”

“All right, thank you Roberts, have a good Christmas, I’ll see you when I get back. Be sure to have a report waiting for when I do.”

He must look as bad as he feels because the older man’s face softens, “Of course Sir. Happy Christmas,” and his section of the screen goes black.

He turns his attention to Lillian. “Oh darling,” she says, “you look wretched.”

He laughs, and it hurts, “The inside does match the outside then.”

“Did you retcon them?”

“Of course,” he sighs, “it can’t really become common knowledge that I speak Boeshane.” He’s already going through all the camera files, erasing everything for the past four hours, even making sure to do the same to any cameras within a five mile radius of the Hub. “They aren’t even cleared to know my full name or title anyway.”

“I’m sorry sweetie,” she says, and he knows it but it feels nice to hear some empathy.

“I’ll be okay,” he assures, hacking into Sato’s phone records and removing himself from them, “I’ll be finishing my time off with my brother and his family. It’ll be fine.”

Lillian doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then, “You liked them, didn’t you.”

He freezes for a moment before answering, “They’re not really Torchwood stock: good people, all of them.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that, and they say quiet goodbyes and well wishes. He closes down the Hub with nothing beyond the echoing of his footsteps, and resists the urge to go to the Captain’s office or bedroom. He has to get over this, it didn’t really mean anything, and Jack doesn’t even remember him for fucks sake. This is ridiculous.

He sits in his brother’s car, staring at the entrance to the Hub for a good ten minutes before he can gather the energy to drive away.

*

He lets himself into the house, and Jenny’s smile is strained when he enters the kitchen. “All right Ianto?”

He loves her just as much as if she were his real sister, and sweeps her up into a huge hug, a good two heads taller than her, and says, “Yes, of course, I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

“No trouble,” she exclaims, squeezing him once before letting go, “never, you just look like you’ve had a tough morning is all.”

“A little,” he says.

“Well, will some waffles make it better?” she offers, and it won’t, of course not, but he laughs and nods anyway.

*

“How was your vacation?” Lillian asks, and he doesn’t answer at first because Lillian does have a key to his flat, but very rarely does she ever actually use it, and he hadn’t exactly expected to walk into his flat upon coming home from Cardiff to find her sitting on his couch with her favorite mug held in a death grip between her hands, illuminated by the soft glow of his television set.

“Nice,” he says, flicking on the lights so they’re not in the dark. “Bloody hell, you look like shit.” Her eyes are surrounded by large dark circles and her hair doesn’t look like it’s been washed in a few days, and she’s wearing his sweatpants. He notices an overnight bag spilling over that’s been places besides his sofa. “Did something happen to your flat?”

She shakes her head, “Not really, I just didn’t feel safe there.”

He drops his bag and moves to sit on his coffee table so he’s in front of her, “Did something happen to you? Are you hurt?”

“No, I,” her breath catches and Ianto has to resist the urge to reach out a hand and touch her, sensing that now is not the time. “I figured out who tried to stop Sato from saving the mainframe.”

“Great,” he replies, unsure at the change of topic, “who was it? They’re going to end up retconned out of their minds.”

Lillian looks him in the eyes, and he quiets, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so serious, “It was Yvonne.”

He blinks, and feels the blood rushing in his ears and his gaze goes black for a moment before he can focus on Lillian’s bloodshot eyes, “No.” She doesn’t say anything, and he shakes his head as if giving physical movement to his denial will make it so. “It can’t be her – she’s the bloody leader of Torchwood.”

“I triple checked it before I even considered that it was a real possibility and at least a couple dozen times since then. It came from her, she used her own codes, and I even have the CCTV footage of her doing it. The only reason she didn’t succeed is because you speak Boeshane, and she doesn’t.”

“Bloody impossible language to learn if you don’t grow up with it,” he breathes, taking a second to absorb what is easily the biggest shock he’s ever had. “Why? What were the aliens trying to get?”

“Not aliens either,” she quirked a small smile, “I traced the hack to Jane Kingston.”

Ianto is mystified, “They both have Top Security clearance, there’s hardly a need for them to go hacking into their own bloody systems.” Lillian continues staring at him, waiting, and he doesn’t have to wrack his brain for long for it to come to him. “No fucking way.”

She nods, and Ianto pries her mug from her hands because it has begun to shake enough that the tea was in danger of sloshing over. “I checked the backlogs, and Yvonne had sent a request to the queen a few months ago for access, but she was denied.”

“What could she possibly want from there? There’s a reason that some things are above us,” there are files, artifacts even, that are inaccessible by anyone but the queen herself – not even the prime minister has any jurisdiction over Torchwood. There the things that are too awful and dangerous for even them to handle.

“I don’t know,” she says, “she didn’t get them, now did she?”

Ianto flinches under the look he’s getting from her, one of desperation and hope, “I can’t.”

“You can,” she says.

“I don’t want to,” he amends, “it’s Yvonne, for Christ’s sake.” He wouldn’t call them best friends, isn’t sure how to define the strange relationship he shares with the woman, but they trust each other. This would kill that more surely than anything else. “She might have a good reason.”

“If she did, she wouldn’t have needed the hack.”

He breathes out, and rubs at his temple, “This is a terrible idea. I could get retconned.” She snorts and he rolls his eyes – that little amnesia pill is useless against anyone with a psi rating over two fifty. Plus, he's too valuable to kill.

“It’s necessary,” she says simply, and fuck it all, she’s right. Necessary trumps difficult, every time.

“Why didn’t you feel safe at your flat?” he asks, and she grimaces and points at a small, black device on the table next to him. “Where was it?” he asks, having to admit now she has a reason to feel scared.

“In my home computer,” she says, “I replaced it with a decoy, so they’ll still think it’s broadcasting my history, and picking up audio in my flat.”

Lillian’s more than twice his age, a smattering of years over forty, but he moves to the couch and pulls her into his arms like she’s a child anyway. “Stay here. We can set it up so it looks like you’re still living at your flat.”

She nods against his chest, and they both pretend like the organization they’re giving everything to isn’t in the process of fucking them over.

*

Ianto does it the next day, masks his presence in Boeshane, and uses the same language to track the broken trail left behind by Jane – and seriously? She fucking bleeds for Torchwood, what the hell – and dicks around for a while to figure out where the bullet would have hit if they hadn’t stopped it. When he took this language from Jack’s mind, he hadn’t known it could do this, and had never intended to use it this way; he had founded it beautiful, had found Jack beautiful, and had wanted to keep some of the beauty that he could never fully possess. Using it like this makes his stomach turn; he’d promised Jack nothing but it feels like a betrayal anyway.

When he finds out, he barely has the coherency to backtrack his way out. Then he just sits there, staring at the screen until it’s an acceptable time for him to slink home, thinking that if he has to stay in this bloody building a moment longer he’ll burn it to the ground.

When Lillian comes back to his flat, their roles are reversed and he’s in his sweats, leaning against the kitchen with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass.

“Well?” she asks, and fear and anticipation has blown her eyes wide.

“Cybermen,” he answers, and tries not to feel anything as the blood drains from her face, “and it’s not just Yvonne and Jane, it’s at least half the top floor, and a truly horrifying number of the lower levels.”

Her knees give out and she crumples to the ground, still staring at him, and he knows he should go to her but he can’t seem to make his feet move. “What?”

“It seems we’ve been left out of the loop,” he says dispassionately, feels the alcohol dulling his brain and dulling his senses. It isn’t an indulgence he’s partaken in since Torchwood, where the way his brain works has become an asset and not a burden. 

“What do we do?” she asks, and he feels himself grow that much older that even Lillian is asking for him to fix this, to make something that’s been smashed whole again.

Quite honestly, he hasn’t a fucking clue what to do know, but he doesn’t let it show. “Nothing. It’s all talk for right now, and we do our jobs and play their games and pray to God that if it becomes more than talk, we can find a way to stop them.”

She starts to cry, and Ianto knocks back another shot, no energy to help her when he can’t even help himself.

Merry fucking Christmas.


	4. Part IV

AN: Hi all! I'm right in the middle of finals, so the next update will be in two weeks. Hope your own finals are going well! :)

PART IV

The next year is spent with Ianto holding his breaths and feeling like he’s walking on tightrope in the middle of a hurricane. He turns twenty one without much fanfare - he’s become so obsessed with Torchwood, so focused and intent in making sure that Yvonne doesn’t cause the end of the world with her ridiculous plans for super soldiers that he hasn’t spoken to his parents or sister in the last six months. He still manages to get Tegan on the phone every other week, but he knows he’s just driving him mad with worry, knows he sounds even more ragged and frustrated every time they speak but he can’t help it.

There's a beeping on his headset, and he taps it while sorting through old schematics on different alien weaponry. “Ianto Jones,” he answers, discarding the one that the Archivist before him had done – how had this place managed to function with that moron in charge? No wonder Torchwood had jumped on him.

“Merry Christmas,” Lillian answers, sounding not half as overwhelmed as she typically did this time of the year.

“It’s not Christmas!” he protests, spinning in his seat so he can grab at his mobile to check the date.

“Not for another couple of weeks, no,” she says, “but when everyone fucks off to actually be with their families for once, the Top Floor begins to get a bit tense. Figured I’d call now and let you be until after New Years.”

He chuckles, and passes a hand over his face, “How’s UNIT going? Still better than Torchwood?”

“Anything’s better than Torchwood,” she says darkly, and Ianto’s glad when the anger and betrayal he’d felt when she had left him to deal with this on his own doesn’t show up. She’s old, too old for this betrayal if not the work itself, and he understands that.

“Course it is,” he’s about to question her further when he hears what he's sure is one of his mugs break in his kitchen. He curses, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you in the new year, yeah?”

“Sure,” she sounds startled, “bye.”

“Happy Christmas,” he ends the call and reaches into his desk drawer to pull his gun out, checking the barrel and safety before creeping down the hall. He makes quite a threatening sight in flannel pajama bottoms and coffee stained shirt, he's sure.

“Sorry, sorry!” a voice hisses spastically, and Ianto feels his lips twitch in spite of himself.

“Seriously? Where are we? You just grabbed me, said it was important, and dragged me here!” Ianto feels his stomach bottom out, and has to grab the side of the wall for a moment. He knows that voice – he hadn’t expected to hear it so soon.

“You were trying to get enough retcon to erase a thousand years worth of memories,” the stranger’s voice has turned dark, and a ghost of a memory surfaces from his time spent in Jack’s mind – right, immortal, he’d almost forgotten.

He hasn’t clicked the safety back on, but he drops the gun to his side and resolves to listen for a while instead.

“One thousand one hundred thirty two, actually,” Jack bites out, and Ianto hears the sound of a palm smacking clothed flesh.

“I’m sure he would appreciate that, that that’s what he’d want for you,” the stranger says, and Ianto doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but from the tone of his voice he guesses that those words were meant to hurt.

The sound of someone being slammed up against his fridge echoes, and he guesses they did. “You don’t know anything about him,” Jack growls, and Ianto winces at the raw pain in it.

“I think I knew him well enough to know that,” there’s some silence before, “What upsets you more Jack? That he’s dead and gone and you’ve just been tortured within an inch of your life by people twisting around his memory and what he did in order to hurt you? Or is that until they had gotten hold of you and brought him back to you with painful – emphasis on the word – clarity, you’d forgotten him?”

“I promised him I’d remember,” Jack whispers finally, “he gave me everything, only asked that, and I promised.”

“So you perceive failure, and your response is to make sure you can’t remember him at all?” the other man’s voice is incredulous.

“I’m not sure what’s my memory anymore,” he says, “how much of it actually happened, and how much they implanted and twisted. I can’t deal with that.”

“And it’s all about you, now isn’t it?” the man’s voice is sharp, and Ianto winces, “Did you ever think it might be more about him than you?”

Jack snarls, “He’s dead! What’s that even supposed to mean?”

The unknown man starts to speak then bites back his words. “I can’t tell you. No, don’t argue, it’s important. Besides, for someone who’s so sure he’s forgotten, you’ve gone to a lot of lengths to remember.”

“I hadn’t even remembered why I wear them, or why I carry it with me, until last year when they got hold of me.”

“I think,” and the stranger’s voice has gentled now, “that he would consider that tribute enough.”

“You don’t know anything about him!” Jack repeats, but with less anger than before.

“Then maybe it’s time I learned,” the unknown man answers, before raising his voice and shouting, “You can come out now! Bit silly, you hiding in your own home and all.”

Ianto refuses to blush, and this time he does flick off the safety because he figures if they wanted to hurt him, they wouldn’t be going about it like this. He steps into plain view, eyebrow raised. Jack isn’t wearing that ridiculous 1940s getup, which he thinks is a shame. He’d worked it after all. Instead he’s wearing a three piece suit that looks like it’d be more at home in his own closet than on Jack. “No coat?”

Jack’s face has slackened, and so has his grip on the other man, who slips away while Jack looks at him in a way not dissimilar to when Ianto took him from the interrogation room. If anything, it looks more desperate, and he’s gone so pale that he’s a little worried the older – apparently much older – man is going to pass out.

“Ianto Jones!” the stranger’s wearing a brown suit and trainers, and Ianto wrinkles his nose even as he takes the proffered hand. “Lovely to see you again, never really got the chance to know you properly the last time we met, on my side of time. I’m the Doctor, no other title, mind you. Sorry to just drop in like this, but it seemed necessary. Jack was about to do something stupid.”

“Seems to be his MO,” Ianto answers after a moment to process the hyper man’s babble.

The man barks out a laugh, and it’s then that Ianto notices Jack hesitantly shuffling his way forward. He has a hand outstretched, and Ianto doesn’t know what he could have done in the future to make Jack look at him like that, or maybe he just looks at him like that from putting his head back in order. He grasps the outstretched hands in his own and muses, “If you’re having so much trouble sorting through your head that you’d rather just get rid of it all, I can tidy it up a bit. A thousand years might take a few sessions though – it was only a couple hundred the first time around, and that took a lot out of me.”

Jack’s pulled Ianto’s hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to his knuckles, and Ianto feels his breath hitch. The Doctor has backed up a couple steps to give them some space. Jack uses his free hand to push down the sleeves of his long sleeved shirt, and then lets his fingers trail against the subtle play of muscles in Ianto’s forearm. “Ianto,” he breathes with the faint tilt to the name that isn’t quite English, “I miss you.”

Ianto frowns, following Jack’s lead and answering in Boeshane, “You shouldn’t. I’m long dead, I’m guessing. A thousand years is more than enough time to move on from a one night stand that you shouldn’t even remember properly.”

Jack laughs, but it sounds more like a sob, “You remind me, later. Not that it matters – there’s a me, out there, driving himself mad trying to figure out who you are. I hate losing time, even if I know why.”

Ianto had noticed - two years among hundreds shouldn't be hard to misplace, but Jack had run circles around them. Those had been the only papers that had any sort of order to them.

Jack squeezes his arm, and Ianto focuses back on the here and now. The thought that he’s not alone in his obsession is both comforting and horrifying, but there’s time for that later. “Regardless. Why are you here? You shouldn’t mess with time this way. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to know that.”

“The Doctor brought me, I don’t know. I don’t care,” he spreads out Ianto’s hand and looks as if he wants to cry as he kisses his palm.

“Doctor,” Ianto says, cupping Jack’s chin in his hands, “why are you here?”

The man clears his throat, “You need some help with a problem, don’t you?”

Ianto frowns, but figures if he’s from the future and he knows both him and Jack then he can probably trust him. Ianto had never really bought into Torchwood's anti-Doctor bullshit anyway. He can’t get a good read on the other man, though, just picks up some affection and protective instincts being thrown his way. He’d skimmed the surface of Jack’s mind and found only a deep, painful loss and a melancholy joy at the sight and touch of Ianto. He also finds a deep, large crack up the side that has his name painted on in bright neon letters, and he’s going to have to take care of that at some point. “Yes.”

“Well, we can help with that. Also, I think Jack needed to see you.”

Ianto looks at the other man, and he really can’t fathom what he could have done in the future to gain the absolute, utter love and devotion in Jack’s face and that scares him a little. He figures it has something to do with his psi rating – he doubts that any other human would have the ability to shift around Jack’s messed up excuse for a brain without going insane. Some aliens would, but the potential for backlash was large. He figures if Jack is going to just drop in whenever he needs a mental tune up, then Ianto should get something out of the deal as well. He pulls his hand away, and Jack makes a broken sound in the back of his throat, but allows it. Ianto curls his hand around the back of Jack’s neck instead, and pulls him down an extra inch so he can kiss him.

Jack lets out a sob against his mouth, and then kisses back, keeping it chaste and feather light, running his hands over his body as if relearning what he’s forgotten. Ianto doesn’t understand this reaction, likes it even less, and goes to deepen the kiss, but Jack pulls back. He closes his arms around Ianto, holding him close and burying his head into Ianto’s shoulder as he begins to shake.

He looks at the Doctor over Jack’s shoulder, knowing he looks bewildered, but the Doctor just smiles sadly and shrugs. “I’ll be back . . . later,” he says, turning and walking out the front door.

Ianto has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, because that’s no help at all, and rubs circles against the other man’s back, “It’s late. We can sort this out tomorrow. Why don’t we go to bed?” He hates feeling responsible. Part of the joy of being with Jack last time was that he didn’t have to be. He feels the other man tense up against him and laughs. “Not to have sex, although your reluctance isn’t doing anything for my ego. Just to sleep, but if that makes you uncomfortable then the couch is all yours.”

Jack pulls his head back, and Ianto is startled to see red eyes and tear tracks. “No, no, I want to be with you. The sex thing, it’s just that, I mean, since you-”

Ianto is horrified, “Please say that you’re not telling me you haven’t have sex since I died.”

Jack snorts, “Just the opposite, I’m afraid. I went on a bit of a binge a hundred or so years after, actually. But for the last couple hundred years or so, I’ve been hanging around this specie in the Omega sector, and sex with them . . . isn’t the same as with other humans. Rougher, less um, it’s hard to explain. I used to know how to do it right, but I think I’ve forgotten.”

Jack looks scared at his admission, and Ianto doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about, so he just shrugs and kisses him again, and there’s still no tongue but it’s a firmer kiss, more solid. When they pull apart, Ianto says frankly, “I haven’t a clue what you’re on about, I’m afraid. I’m game if and when you are, but right now I feel like I’m in the twilight zone and I can’t even remember the last time I got a proper night’s rest. So, bed or couch?”

Jack smiles, and it’s still broken, but it’s a smile. “Bed,” he says,

“Excellent,” Ianto holds his hand as he leads him to his bedroom, figuring physical contact can only help at this point. Ianto’s already in his pajamas, but he stills Jack on the foot of his bed and begins unbuttoning his jacket. Jack makes a sound of protest, the muscles of his chest twitching underneath Ianto’s hand. “Relax, I’m just getting you out of these so you don’t sleep in them. What’s with the suit anyway?” he’s already gotten rid of the jacket, vest, and tie, and is working on the shirt.

“Reminds me of you,” Jack says, his eyes closed. Ianto’s hands still for a moment before they’re back to undressing the man in front of him.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Well then.” He leaves Jack’s t-shirt on, and then goes to unbuckling his pants, and is grateful he’s actually too tired to get turned on. When they’re pooled around his ankles, he pushes Jack so he’s sitting on the bed, then bends on his knee to untie and remove his shoes. He pulls off his socks, and wrestles off the trousers, placing them with the other bits of the suits. He feels something heavy in the pocket, and takes it out. “Hey, this is mine!” he flicks open the stopwatch’s face, but instead of the familiar clock face there’s round, glowing screen, displaying the date, time, and location, from universe sector to street number. “Handy,” he remarks, closing it and putting it on top of the pile of clothes.

He looks up, and Jack is sitting in his pants and undershirt watching him with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands. “I’ve carried it with me since you died – got it refurnished a couple centuries later. It was practical, and I didn’t think you’d mind – you liked practical.”

“I don’t,” Ianto says, quietly amazed that Jack has carried something of his with him for a millennia, even if by the conversation earlier he guesses Jack forgot it was his to begin with. He’d known it was significant, and kept it anyway. The Doctor was right – he does think that’s enough.

“You’ve done this for me before, you know. Or you will. English is terrible for time travel,” Jack says, breaking the thin silence.

Ianto ignores the last part, and just says calmly, “Have I?”

Jack nods, “Usually after everything goes to hell and I’m ready to either blow off the world or pass out. Sometimes when you were upset, I did it for you, but most of the time it was you taking care of me rather than me taking care of you.”

“I doubt that,” Ianto stands, and squeezes Jack’s shoulder, “Come on, under the covers before you freeze.”

Jack complies, and Ianto’s not sure where to place himself in relation to Jack, so he just lies down next to him with a good six inches between them. Jack allows it for a beat before he half turns over, his head pillowed on Ianto’s chest and an arm thrown around his waist. “Is this okay?”

Ianto closes his eyes and puts an arm around Jack’s back, thinking this might have been similar to what he and Jack could have had last time, if circumstances hadn’t been what they were. “Yeah.”

Ianto rubs Jack’s back until his falls asleep, and is smart enough not to mention the growing damp spot on the front of his shirt.

*

Ianto wakes slowly the next morning, and it’s a good thing that he takes a moment to sort out that everything that happened last night wasn’t a dream, because when he opens his eyes, Jack is sitting at the edge of his bed, staring at him. Ianto groans and throws his arm over his eyes, mumbling, “That’s not creepy or anything. Morning.”

“Morning,” Jack echoes softly, and Ianto groans again before rolling out of bed and stretching, hearing his spine make satisfying popping sounds as he does.

“How long have you been up?”

“About four hours.”

Ianto blinks and double checks the time, and it’s not even six thirty. “Alright then. If you spent that time watching me sleep, don’t tell me. I’m going to shower – want to join?” There’s a longing etched clear on his face as anything else, but he shakes his head anyway. Ianto rolls his eyes, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I want to come,” Jack says at once.

Ianto’s a little startled at the suddenness of the exclamation before a smirk curls at the corner of his lips, “That can be arranged, yes.” It takes Jack a moment to catch on, but when he does he nearly grins. “Come on, if you want to. I’m not trying to force you into anything, but the door’s wide open if you want it.”

He literally leaves the door open for Jack, and he’s working shampoo into his hair when the curtain is slowly pulled open. Ianto knows he must look a sight, with suds all in his hair, but instead of laughing Jack looks like he wants to cry again, and this has to stop. “I’m not dead now, you know.”

“Sorry?” Jack swallows hard, stepping under the showerhead in his pants. Ianto takes a minute to wash the soap from his head, and Jack just stands their watching him.

When he’s done, he trails his fingers down Jack’s chest and stops above his belly button when he feels him tensing. He finds it vastly unfair that he’s in a shower naked while the other man isn’t, finds it unfair that this gorgeous, gorgeous man in front of him is in love with him, and he can’t even really touch him. Then he takes a moment to think about falling so hard in love with someone that a thousand years later you still mourn them, still feel the pain of their passing, even if you forgot them for awhile. Ianto isn’t the one dealing with the most unfairness here by a long shot. He moves his hand up and presses it against Jack’s chest, and puts Jack’s hand over the place where his own heart is, “It’s beating you know.”

The skin around Jack’s mouth is tight before he admits, “It wasn’t the last time.”

Ianto doesn’t let it faze him, “Yes, I know. However, if I’m as important to you as you say I am,” and Ianto still doesn’t really believe it, thinks he’s sort of dreaming and the world is playing a huge joke on him, “then it might be a good idea to live in the here and now, as opposed to worrying over a future that hasn’t even really happened yet.”

Jack closes his eyes and moves them together so he has the younger man wrapped in his arms. “I love you.”

Ianto nods, because he’s not blind. “I figured.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Jack grasps him by the shoulders and pushes him back, looking him in the eye, “I didn’t tell you before you died. You died in my arms, and you told me you loved me, and I didn’t say it back. But I did Ianto, and I do, I promise.”

Ianto blinks, because he hadn’t been expecting that, but it certainly explains a lot. In his shower also may not be the best place to have this conversation. “I’m certain I knew Jack. There’s no reason for you to have been torturing yourself like this.”

Jack stares at Ianto for a long moment, then kisses him hard on the mouth, this time slipping in some tongue. They don’t have sex, but Jacks sucks him off and seems to nearly come just from that, and it takes not two minutes of firm stroking on Ianto’s part to make the man come undone.

“You’re still working for London then?” Jack asks, slipping on a pair of Ianto’s sweatpants and his own undershirt, because the younger man had flat out refused to let him put on his suit from yesterday.

“Still?” Ianto frowns, “so in the future I’m not?” Jack freezes, a very ‘Oh shit’ look on his face, and Ianto waves it away before he can attempt to backtrack, “That’s my plan as is, as soon as all this shit is taken care of. Speaking of, I should probably go into work soon.”

Jack nods, “Of course,” he waits, “Don’t.”

Ianto smirks, dialing a familiar number. “Sir?” he gets around a yawn.

He rolls his eyes, “It’s been a year, and I still don’t understand how you two are together. I’m running a division of a secret alien hunting organization, and remember it’s this that keeps me up at night.”

Adams yawns again, but there’s an amused tilt to his voice when he says, “Shall I wake Bryon?”

‘Bryon?’ Ianto mouths to himself, and misses Jack’s snort at the action. “No, just tell Roberts a family thing came up and he’s in charge. Don’t let the power get to his head – it’s only for a day.”

“Right, good day sir,” Adams already sounds like he’s half asleep when he hangs up, and Ianto resolves to send Roberts a text at about half past nine just to be sure.

“What?” he snaps subconsciously when he notices Jack’s gaze on him. He realizes he’s still naked and goes to put on some sweats of his own – if they’re going to be lounging about his flat, then he sees no reason to break out a suit.

“You’re very comfortable with giving orders,” he says.

Ianto shrugs on a shirt, “Been doing nothing but for four years.”

“Right,” Jack says, quiet.

Ianto scrolls to another number in his phone in lieu of responding, “I have a date to cancel for tomorrow too, I guess.”

Jack frowns, “With who?”

Ianto looks up, because he highly doubts Jack is irrational enough be jealous of someone Ianto had a first date planned with before he’d shown up, “A new junior field agent.”

“Name?” he asks, going tense, and Ianto is definitely missing something.

“Lisa Hallet.” He cannot even begin to describe the look on Jack’s face right now, angry, sad, and melancholy all at once, “Look, it’s fine. Even if it went anywhere, it was sure to be a fucked up relationship anyway.”

“Why’s that?” curiosity is pushing some of the negative emotions back.

“She doesn’t know I’m Torchwood – I’m Top Floor, remember? She thinks I work as a paper pusher for the lawyer’s office the building over. I’d be lying to her about working for Torchwood while she lied to me about the exact same thing.”

“Why bother?” Jack asks.

Ianto shrugs, “She’s hot, and brilliant. I’ve read her performance review, she’s new, but she has awesome potential. She’s going to be great. Plus, she’s really, really hot.” He’s twenty one – hotness is still a huge factor with pretty much everything he does.

“Go on the date.”

Ianto blinks, “Excuse me?”

“Go on the date,” Jack says clearly, “we don’t meet for a while yet, and I can’t exactly stick around forever,” it’s fairly obvious that this acknowledgement is physically painful for him to admit, “Go for it.”

It’s obvious that Jack’s not telling him something, but Ianto shrugs and tosses his phone onto his side table and calls “Coffee?” over his shoulder, already padding his way into the kitchen. He nearly has a heart attack when he walks in to find the Doctor sitting on his counter and swinging his feet back and forth.

“Ianto Jones!” he says, grin bright, as he hopes on to the floor and spreads his arms, “I’ve brought bagels!”

Ianto grins back when the man twists a little so he can grapple for the bag on the counter and hold it up triumphantly, “Excellent, good work Doctor. It’s good to know the universe is in such skilled, thoughtful hands.”

The other man winks at the barb, but preens never the less. “Good to be of service! JACK!” he shouts and Ianto focuses very hard on not twitching as he sticks the bagels in the toaster oven. “Feeling less pathetic and self destructive?”

Ianto winces, because it’s true, but he doesn’t think he needs his face rubbed in it. He turns back to see the Doctor nearly glaring at the other man, and Jack meeting his gaze, “Yes. Thank you.”

Ianto’s not sure if Jack’s thanking the Doctor for asking, or for taking him to Ianto, but either way the Doctor seems mollified. “Yes, you’re welcome. Now, we did come here for of a reason other than you Jack, the world doesn’t revolve around you.” He turns to Ianto, takes the plate holding his buttered bagel with a nod of thanks, and says, “So. Cybermen, nasty, aren’t they?”

 

They spend the day going over schematics of old weapons, what might stop them and what will, and how the bloody hell to an evacuate a building with over a hundred employees who’ve been trained to run to danger, not away from it. He hopes none of this becomes necessary, but he’d rather have it and not need it than not have it and need it. About half way through Jack begins to look at him with this part perplexed, part amazed look on his face that he’s not sure how to respond to, so he ignores it.

That’s how they spend the next couple of weeks too, around Ianto going into work, because Time Lord and centuries old time traveling boyfriend or no, he actually has a very demanding, time-consuming job and people whose lives depend on him doing it correctly. Jack texts or calls him a dozen or so times each day, and although Ianto knows it’s a huge security risk, he doesn’t try too hard to dissuade Jack from doing it. After being so wrapped up in Torchwood, it feels good to have something different, even if that something different is all wrapped up in Torchwood as well.

There’s a night, about three days in, where Jack’s dead to the world, but Ianto can’t sleep – something feels off, not dangerous, but wrong. He slips from Jack’s grasp and goes to the kitchen, intent on a cup of tea to settle his nerves.

His nerves which take a bit of abuse when he walks into his kitchen to see the Doctor sitting cross legged on his counter, wearing bright blue pajamas with tiny TARDIS’s scattered all across them and bright pink fuzzy socks, and a matching pink bowtie dangling from under the color of his similarly patterned blue shirt. He’s cradling something in his hands, rhythmically rubbing his thumb over it, and doesn’t look up when Ianto shuffles over to his side, peering down at the object. “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

The Doctor doesn’t look up, but his lips twitch into a smile, “Time is interesting, if you can wrap your head around it.”

“I can’t,” Ianto says, unashamed, “I just observe it, keep track of it, and do my best to not let it run away from me.”

“I do the opposite,” the Doctor presses the button, starting the stopwatch, watching the little hand move around the face. “Linear time confuses me if I stay in it too long – I like being able to move through time the way you people move through land, going from Russia, to Asia, to the Americas.”

Ianto smiles, “It sounds exciting, but after a while I’d probably find it tiring.”

The Doctor makes an amused sound, “Many of my Companions feel the same way, in the end.”

He still hasn’t looked up, and Ianto hesitates before placing his hand on the Time Lord’s knee, “Is there a reason that you’re sitting in my kitchen, fondling my watch? Not that I mind, but it doesn’t seem to be a very logical thing to do.”

The Doctor uses his free hand to trace the veins and bones of Ianto’s, “No, not really, but I’m not known for being very logical.” He’s silent for a moment before saying, “You’re special, Ianto Jones.”

He shakes his head, “I’m rare, there’s a difference. Your psi rating must be double mine,” a strange look crosses Ianto’s face, “Wait, if you could fix Jack’s head, why did you bring him here?”

The fingers moving softly over the back of Ianto’s hand stutter in their ministrations, “I only have about 100 psi points on you, actually, and Jack’s mind is . . . I don’t like it, if I can avoid it. It’s too big, too confused. You’ve done a good job with it,” he says earnestly, finally looking Ianto in the eyes, “but it’s like walking into a room that’s upside-down, very disorienting.” Ianto frowns, and has to agree that Jack’s mind is a huge mess, but he doesn’t think it’s quite that bad. He doesn’t know if the Doctor can tell what he’s thinking by the look on his face or if he’s reading his surface thoughts, but he continues, “Everything ends, and everything begins. Except Jack. As a being who deals with beginnings and endings, who lives a life by it, it’s very disconcerting to be in a mind that doesn’t.”

“He won’t really live forever, will he?” Ianto asks, cold at the thought.

“No,” the Doctor admits, “not forever, but a really, really long time.”

Ianto nods, and the Doctor stops the watch, covering the face before asking, “How long was that?”

Ianto blinks, “Twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds?”

“Forty seconds,” the Doctor corrects, the sadness gone as he grins down at the younger man, “but close enough. I like your mind,” he presses a thumb against Ianto’s temple, just to touch. “It’s very neat, organized. Logical.”

“Is that good?” Ianto asks.

The other man hesitates, but then nods firmly. “Yes. Good, very good,” splays his hand so he’s cupping the upper part of Ianto’s head, thumb still in same position. “When you went missing, when you were eight, what do you remember?”

Ianto blinks, startled, “Nothing.”

“No, what do you remember?” he presses his thumb into Ianto’s forehead, and he blinks as a single, brilliant image flashes behind his eyelids.

“Fire,” he says.

“What?” the Doctor says, and the pressure on his temple lessens so it’s back to being gentle.

“Fire,” Ianto repeats, trying to gain a firmer grasp on the image, “Everything’s red and orange." He looks up at him, confused on why the alien had brought forth this particular image. “I don’t understand.”

The Doctor leans forward to press his forehead to Ianto’s, and it’s not the least bit sexual, but it is intimate, “That’s all right. I just wanted to know if you remembered.”

“I don’t,” he breaths out, wondering if this feeling of safety that everyone experienced around the man was normal, or if it was just him and Jack.

“But you can,” he leans back to push the stopwatch into Ianto’s hand, and pats him on the head before saying cheerfully, “Goodnight Mr. Jones!” and stepping out his front door.

Ianto sighs and closes a fist around the stopwatch, warmed by the Doctor’s hands. His restlessness is gone, and he fights back a yawn as he forgoes the tea to crawl back in bed with Jack.

They haven’t mentioned the conversation since it happened, mostly because Ianto isn’t sure what to make of it and he’s pretty sure the Doctor has already half-forgotten it.

Ianto rests his head on top of his desk, and lets his minder wander from the confusing subject of the Doctor, to the more-or-less equally confusing subject of Jack Harkness.

They still haven’t progressed to sex, and Ianto can’t figure out why the hell not. Still, the category of not sex is pretty extensive, Jack’s rather innovative, and he’s twenty one years old so at this point any kind of definition of sex he can get is good. Doesn’t stop him from wishing Jack would just pound him into the mattress, or the floor, or the kitchen table. He’s not feeling very picky at this point.

He’s gone on two dates with Lisa, and it’s still casual, so at the very lease he doesn’t have to deal with any sort of guilt about stepping out on anybody, with he and Lisa yet to have the ‘are we seeing other people?’ conversation, and Jack the one encouraging him to date other people in the first place. Whatever issue he’d had in the beginning, he seems to have gotten rid of, because he’d happily listened to Ianto ramble about Lisa smarts, wit, and hotness for a good half hour after each date before pulling him into his arms and snogging him.

There’s a ringing in his earpiece, and he taps it while signing off on Rachel’s maternity leave. “Ianto Jones.”

“Love the way you say your name,” Jack says brightly on the other end.

“I would have thought that you liked I say yours more,” he grabs the next bit of useless paperwork, and frowns when he sees it’s a death certificate requiring his signature as Head Archivist; he doesn’t know the person. He rolls to his computer to look up the report anyway.

“Good point. Wanna know a secret?” Ianto’s frown deepens when he reads that it had been a training accident – what a bloody careless mistake. He’ll have to send someone to give Kingston shit on that later; she should be keeping a closer eye on these sort of things. He signs off on it, but adds the notation that it was a careless death. It’s true, and it will piss Kingston off, which, ever since he found out how she was tied up in this whole Cybermen business, he considers a definite plus. “Ianto?”

“Sorry, Jack. Tell me a secret.” The next one is another death certificate tied up in the same accident. Jesus, maybe they just shouldn’t give the new recruits firearms until they could prove that they weren’t retarded.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

Ianto blinks, pulling up a calendar on his monitor. “Huh. What do you know. So?”

Jack makes a little sound, and Ianto wonders if Christmas is important to them in the future, or the past, depending on which of them you were talking to. “So. You should come home early and not go in tomorrow at all.”

Ianto bites his lip, before saying “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Many thanks, Ianto mine!” the cheer is back in his voice, and Ianto hates to rob him of it, but he’s curious.

“Is that your pet name for me?” he asks, “Ianto mine?”

It takes a moment for Jack to answer, and Ianto uses it to sign his name with a flourish. “Yes. Or my Ianto, and if I was feeling really giddy I called you Lovely. Once in great while Baby used to slip out. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” he fights back a yawn, “I was curious is all.”

“You called me cariad,” Jack says, voice lowered like it’s a secret, and maybe it is. “That, and something else, but I won’t tell you. I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Ianto agrees, this time unable to hold back his yawn.

“Come home now, you’re exhausted, I can tell.”

“Somehow I have the feeling going home isn’t going to make me any less tired,” he says wryly, thinking of how yesterday he’d walked through the door and been pressed up against it, kissed within an inch of his life, and given a fantastic blow job.

Jack chuckles low, “I can’t help it if I’m bored all day, waiting at home for you like a good wife.”

Ianto snorts, “You and the Doctor spend the time doing things that I don’t want to know about. You’re such a liar.” Jack goes quiet on the other end, and Ianto knows he’s tripped over another invisible minefield from their time together. “I’ll be home soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he answers back before disconnecting them.

*

When he walks in, Jack’s curled up on the couch sipping at something in a mug, and there’s another on the side table that’s still steaming. “What’s that?” he asks, toes off his shoes and throwing his jacket on the hook. There’s no heady scent of coffee.

“Taste!” Jack demands, holding out an arm with a clear invitation to cuddle. He is certainly a man who likes to cuddle.

Ianto accepts the cup and leans against Jack, taking a cautious sip. “Hot chocolate?”

Jack hums, “Seemed appropriate.”

“Jack, can I ask you something?”

He must be able to tell something from the tone of Ianto’s voice, because he straightens, “What is it?”

“A couple of things, actually,” he takes another sip of the hot chocolate, “I know you may not be able to answer them, time paradoxes and what not, but they’re important.”

Jack nods slowly, “Shoot.”

“All this, everything that I’m doing, is it pointless? Do the cybermen come, do they not, do I stop them or is everything lost? You’re saying you know me when I’m older, so I know I live regardless, but what about everyone else?”

His face is creased in pain at the question, and Ianto almost wants to say never mind, it’s not important, except that he can’t, because it is. “I can’t tell you that Ianto,” Jack says, voice tight. “I’m sorry, it’s too connected to things that happen later.”

Ianto nods, because he’d been expecting that, “It’s all right,” and he tilts his head to kiss Jack’s jaw to prove it, “Anyway. There’s about an hour until Christmas, Jack Harkness. However will we fill the time?” He puts his mug on the side table and swings his leg over Jack so he’s straddling him. Jack puts his mug aside as well, the shadows already starting to recede from his eyes.

“However will we?” he murmurs, running his hands underneath Ianto’s shirt, hands large and warm against his skin that still holds some chill from outside.

“My own stopwatch is still performing the functions it’s supposed to,” he remarks, slowly rocking his hips against Jack’s. “Lots of things you can do with a stopwatch.”

Jack makes a sound that’s half laugh half sob, and Ianto looks up sharply because that wasn’t the reaction he’d been aiming for. “I can think of a few,” he whispers before pulling Ianto down for a kiss that drives the questions from his mind.

The clock strikes midnight, turning to Christmas morning, with Jack riding Ianto slow and steady and through his haze of pleasure are the twin thoughts of Finally, thank fucking God, and This is even better than being pounded into the mattress.

 

That morning he wakes up with Jack wrapped all around him, and it’s not a bad way to do it. “Good morning, Ianto Jones,” he mumbles in his ear, and Ianto grins.

“Morning, Jack Harkness,” he greets, stretching as much as he can with the tangle of limbs the two of them are in. He thinks now is a good enough time as ever, so he twists so he can look Jack in the eye from the cradle of his arms and reaches up a hand to rub at his temple. “Now?” he asks, feeling the same crack with his name on it that had yet to be fixed.

Jack frowns, “There are things you shouldn’t know.”

Ianto brushes his lips against Jack’s, “I’ll dump anything I learn after, and I’ll do a complete one this time. It needs to be fixed.”

“I thought I wasn’t broken?” Jack returns, and Ianto blinks at the echo of his own words from two years ago.

“They broke you,” Ianto says, and he doesn’t know who they are or how, and he doesn’t think he could ever fathom why, but Jack’s eyes dim and he doesn’t deny it. Ianto presses his lips against Jack’s forehead and says simply, “Please.”

He nods, and Ianto enters into his mind again, not nearly as smoothly as he had the first time. He blinks, looking at the impossibly large room and corridors stacked high with various filing cabinets and doors. Things seem battered, but in place, and Ianto’s grateful that whatever housekeeping he did a thousand years ago is basically intact now. He focuses his attention to the large, jagged crack with various, dull silver threads stuck in it. He sits in front of it for a while, simply staring, and decides that the old fashioned way is probably best.

He picks out the threads by hand – it takes hours. As soon as they’re pulled from the wall, they dissolve, and once the last one is gone a ripple seems to echo throughout Jack’s head, the crack rumbling a little as the smallest cracks that had branched out begin to close. Ianto supposes he could speed it up some, possibly all the way, but it won’t hurt Jack to let his mind repair itself. It’s probably good for the man to have to obey the laws of nature every once in a while.

Once the thread had gone, the memory it had attached itself too had removed itself from Ianto’s own mind. He only remembers vague feelings they had evoked, and he does his best to rid himself of those as well because there were many that hadn’t been pleasant.

He leaves Jack’s mind, and comes back to himself to Jack kissing him hard, murmuring “Thank you” in between kisses. “You have a great skill and power, Ianto Jones,” he says, kissing him once more on the mouth before loosening the tight grip he had on him.

He settles back in bed with the late morning light streaming in, and a memory from the first time he had met Jack comes to mind and he laughs.

“What?” the Jack that’s with him here and now asks.

“Just something you told me last time – how Ianto Jones was the name of a powerful man in your time.”

“It is,” Jack says easily, “everyone knows the name because-” Ianto yelps at the sudden painfully tight grip Jack has on him, and feels the tension radiating from him.

“Jack, what’s wrong?” Ianto tries to turn in his grip to get a better look at him, but can’t with the vice like hold. “Are you okay? Jack! You’re scaring me!”

The thin note of panic seems to be enough to shake Jack out of stupor. “Gods,” he breaths, the hot air ghosting over Ianto’s neck, and the younger man notices that Jack is trembling. “I’ve just realized something.”

“What’s that?” Ianto asks, giving up on seeing the man’s face and stroking the arms around his waist instead.

“I need to do something. I need to leave, because I think I made a mistake, a terrible, horrible mistake,” even his voice is trembling.

“Does it have to do with the powerful man with my name?” Ianto guesses, and Jack nods against his back.

Ianto sighs, because he’d known his time with Jack wouldn’t last, obviously, but he’d been hoping to stretch it farther than a couple of weeks. This time together had been nice mostly because they’d both been aware it wouldn’t last – when nothing deep can be discussed, and the minor chafes can be pushed aside just because there’s no point on arguing on who does the dishes if they only have so much time together. He’s also going to try very hard to not be ridiculous about this and think about how as soon as he’d fixed him, Jack had seen fit to go running, for whatever reason. The man has access to time machine – there was no reason for him to go rushing off this instant. He doesn’t say any of that, says instead, “All right. I have no idea what you’re talking about, as usual, but I understand.”

Jack fucks him right then, and Ianto has the thought that if in fact he were not a twenty one year old, twenty first century Welsh human male, and in face were a giant girl, he might describe as what he and Jack did that morning as making love.

The Doctor comes that morning at his usual time, but when he sees the look on Jack and Ianto’s faces his bright smile dims. “Oh,” he says quietly. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to leave now, then?”

Jack nods tightly, an arm still around Ianto’s waist. He turns the younger man in his arms, kisses him slow. When they pull apart, Ianto asks, “Will I see you again?”

“Yes,” Jack answers, a little too promptly, and Ianto narrows his eyes.

“Not the younger you, you you. Better question, are you going to see me again?”

Jack grins, and pecks him once more on the mouth. “Yes, I’ll come back,” his eyes flash with a sudden sadness, “I always do.” There’s a hesitance around the corners of his mouth as he says, “Just – be patient. It might take a while.”

“I’m good at that,” Ianto says, and they share a grin because he fakes it pretty well, but in truth Ianto hates waiting for anything. He supposes Jack’s worth it though.

Jack kisses him once more, lingers, and says, “You know the question you asked me last night?”

Ianto nods, wary.

“You do the right thing,” he breaths against Ianto’s temple, “remember that, okay? You do what needs to be done because you are the one to do it.” Ianto wants to protest, wants to know more, because what does that even mean? But he can’t, so he just nods again instead.

The Doctor steps forward when Jack steps back, and fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt, looking down at his trainers. “So!” he says, pushing his head up to look Ianto in the eye, “I didn’t get to know you much better this go around than the last, Jack’s a possessive bastard, but there’ll be a next time!”

“Will there?” Ianto questions.

The Doctor’s face smoothes into the closest thing to seriousness it can manage when somebody’s life isn’t being threatened. “Yes, there will. I know you may not be able to tell now, but you’re very special Ianto Jones. You’re all mixed up in the time stream, and one day I’ll show you how.” Ianto is speechless, but the Doctor has apparently tired of his moment of seriousness, so he darts forward and plants a kiss to his cheek, “See you in another time, Ianto Jones!” before darting out the door and dragging Jack with him, who blows him one last kiss goodbye. Ianto watches them disappear into the blue box which is there one moment, and then gone the next.

He’s pretty sure he could make a metaphor out of that, but he decides that he’ll just get drunk instead.


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone im in spain now and really into teen wolf so i don't know when ill get around to writing more of this but i figured id post the few completed chapters that i have hope you like it

PART V

“This isn’t a good idea,” his brother says, voice tight. Ianto sighs and the last of his things in the duffle his brother had brought him. The hospital’s smell is cold and biting in his nose, and he’s already spent months in this place recovering – there’s so much misery soaked into the walls that it gives him a headache. He already has the constant strain of dealing with his burnt out mind, there’s no need to add fire to the flames.

“I’ve been given a clean bill of health,” Ianto says in his best reasonable voice.

“You almost died!” Tegan shouts, then shoots a look at the open door.

“That happens, in my line of work,” Ianto says, and very consciously doesn’t acknowledge the shaking in his hands, “besides, almost doesn’t count.”

“What the fuck happened, Yan?” in spite of the harsh language, his voice is tired.

Ianto turns to face his brother, “It’s classified. I’ve told you that.”

“Over two hundred people killed, and a fire that took out three buildings. They’re claiming terrorist on the news, but that’s not what happened and we both know it. Fine, whatever, what’s done is done, but why are you going back to them?”

There’s nothing left to pack, and Ianto holds his hands open, palms up, and tries to explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. “My work is important, what those two hundred plus people did every day was vital. Now me and a woman are the last top ranking survivors, and we’ve struck a deal. I get it up and running, and then she’ll take over. It’s a tragedy, it’s a mess, it’s the worst possible thing that ever could have happened, but it is what it is, Tegan.” He hesitates, but adds, “I knew this was a possibility. I took precautions. This is the result of over a year and a half planning for the possibility of this happening, and still we have this result.”

Tegan looks as old as Ianto feels, “You’re just a kid. Why is this your responsibility?”

“Because I can do what needs to be done, and so I must do it,” he hitches the pack over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’ve done most of the coordinating from bed these past few months – I’ll be surprised if it takes me more than a few weeks to get it into good enough condition that my friend can take over.”

“Then what?” Tegan demands, “You just move on, doing what got you here in the first place?”

Ianto smiles, “You’ll like this part, maybe. I’m going to go back to Cardiff – there’s another branch there and I’ll see if I can get hired there. If not, there’s another organization not dissimilar to mine that’s been salivating over me for the past year or two in London.”

Tegan still looks torn, “Can’t you just go back to University and take over the world through politics, or something?”

Ianto doesn’t acknowledge that, squeezing his brother’s shoulder as he says, “Thanks for coming down now, and when this first happened. It made everything easier in the beginning, having you here.”

Tegan snorts, “Sorry none of the others could be here.”

Ianto shrugs, “It’s a mutual thing, at this point. As far as they know, I’ve graduated and am just drifting along with no real purpose. I was the smart one, remember? At this point I’m a total letdown.”

There’s an awkward pause, because both of them are aware that by letting the rest of the family think that he was a loser, he’d been doing just as they’d expected. In a family full of failures, being a success was tinged with bitterness and jealousy. Tegan being a lawyer had always been a double edged sword within the family – Ianto doesn’t think they could handle it if he actually made something of his life.

“If only you could tell them you’re James Bond,” Tegan muses, breaking the silence, as they walk out.

Ianto laughs, “If only I could be James Bond!”

 

He’d like to say he’s handling this well, but he’s not really. He still gets nightmares and wakes up sweating and crying in the middle of the night, and imagines he’ll be doing so for the foreseeable future. None of his own team had survived – he’d been the one to tell Rachel’s husband that she wasn’t coming home, that he was now a single father. The hardest part, for each member’s family, had been telling them that there’d been no body found, when in reality everyone had been frozen and placed in the sublevel morgue.

Also in that morgue, found after the destruction, were the bodies of the new recruits whose death certificates Ianto had signed off on last Christmas, as well as others they’d yet to trace. All of them were in partial states of Cyberman conversion. All were failures, and had been disposed of as such. Ianto had been sick when he’d seen them, and Lillian had found him after she’d had her own look, pale and shaking, and they’d gotten drunk enough to forget to be horrified until the morning after. He was surprised more of Torchwood didn’t die of liver failure, although to be fair most were killed long before that became an issue.

That Torchwood had sub-levels at all, and that the morgue was one of them, was a blessing. It made it possible to show evidence of what the fuck happened to the Queen, Prime Minister, and UNIT. Four floors of the eight story building are sublevel and unknown to the public – not that the insurance firm Torchwood One masqueraded as is well known either. They’re Torchwood – Torchwood One – so during the four months in the hospital it’s been completely rebuilt. Of the twenty seven survivors, he’d only managed to get fifteen to stay on – he couldn’t really blame the rest, since he was included in that statistic.

In the mean time, they’d recruited liberally from both UNIT and MI6. Unofficially, Ianto had gotten at least half of their current tech people from jail cells – hackers have a certain mind that makes them perfect for what Torchwood needs. The other half was comprised of the people that were too good to get caught. 

He lives in his apartment still, although he’s boxed as much of it up as he can – the second his Director title gets signed over to Lillian, he’s out. He has Jack’s dress shirt, the one he wore when he’d first slept with Ianto, in his tiny excuse for a flat hidden behind his office. He also has a deep, royal purple tie, made from a foreign material that’s both smoother and softer than silk, that had belonged to the Jack of the future. He knows he should feel creepier for having these things, but it’s all he has – a shirt, a tie, and the knowledge of a language that won’t be spoken for another three thousand years.

He tries to remember that when the bitter, unfair anger overtakes him for Jack not helping with this, for Jack of the future not warning him, even though Ianto knows he couldn’t. He thinks of Lisa, brilliant, beautiful Lisa, and his anger against Jack still burns just as hot as his grief for her when he she creeps into his thoughts. He’d told Ianto to go on that date, and intellectually Ianto knows it had to happen because it had already happened, but he thinks of the heartache he could have saved himself if he hadn’t fallen in love with her.

At least half the times when he wakes up with his face covered in tears and throat raw from shouting, it’s the betrayal in her partially converted face when she’d seen him, when she’d found out he was in Torchwood, was Top Floor, and had been hiding it all this time. It was still the look on her face when he’d killed her, shot her twice in the head after telling her he loved her and kissing her one last time. If any of his Lisa had been left, it wouldn’t be for long. He knows it’s not Jack’s fault, but sometimes he just can’t make himself care.

Sometimes he blames the Doctor too, the split second glance he’d seen of him, only recognizable by the sonic screwdriver, with a pretty blond girl following him. Most of the time he can’t bare it though, even if maybe he is a bit to blame. It is this, more than anything else, that makes the Doctor dangerous.

Torchwood Three had rung in the days that followed, and he’d had it fielded by one of the Junior field agents that had come out of the mess relatively unharmed – he knows they could have used the help, but he hadn’t been ready to face any of the members of that team yet.

Ianto’s broken out of his musing by a woman waving a hand in his face, “You’re in my chair.”

“So sorry, Director Kale,” he drawls.

Lillian frowns while she falls into the chair across from Ianto’s desk, “Not for another week or so, Director Jones.”

The look on Ianto’s face matches hers at the use of the title, “God. Whoever thought we, the black sheep of the top floor, would be running this place?”

“I’m not a fan of the idea,” she agrees, “but what can you do?”

Ianto shrugs, “Are you sure you have everything under control for next Monday? I could stay on for your second for a couple more weeks if you needed me.”

Lillian’s smile is rueful, “If I thought I could manage it, I’d try to convince you to keep running this place and allow me to play second for you. But, no, thanks, I’ll need to get my sea legs at some point.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I know it’s unfair to dump this on all of you, I’m just . . . just so sick of playing leader. I’m young, and I’ll never be just a regular twenty something considering how ingrained Torchwood is in me, but I’d rather just not have any more lives depending on me,” he gaze darkens, “especially considering the ones I’ve lost.”

Lillian slides her hand over the desk, palm up, and Ianto takes it in his own. Lillian had lost her former team as well, but it had been cushioned by not seeing or interacting with them in over a year and a half. Ianto had only been a direct superior to a team of fifteen, and they’d been good to him, loyal – not a single one had been involved in the Cybermen plot. Roberts had died protecting Adams, who had died when he wouldn’t leave his lover’s body. The best Ianto could do was making sure they were resting next to each other in morgue.

“It’s all right, love,” she says, “I understand, although I still think trying to worm your way into Torchwood Three is a terrible idea.”

Ianto leans back in his chair, “What else is there? I don’t want to lead Torchwood One, and you and I both know that if I stay here I could be a bloody janitor and they’d still listen to my orders above yours. In the same breath, I’ve been doing this for nearly five years. I don’t think there’s an off switch. And honestly, I’d rather not go to Torchwood Two – that place is such a disaster area that it would give me and my OCDness a heart attack. Torchwood Four doesn’t even technically exist – and they all know who I am anyway. Plus, they deal heavily with the psychic side of things, and my mind still hasn’t recovered. So Torchwood Three it is, or UNIT.”

Lillian darkens, “Why did you lower your shields with so much suffering and death going on around you? You’re lucky things just got knocked around a bit – Lyle only has a little more than half your psi rating, and when he let down his shields his mind went blank.”

“You know why,” Ianto says, trying not to think about how even thought his gait is now strong and steady he’s working on mental crutches. “It was the only way I could find Lisa.” She hadn’t known he’d looked, but he liked her mind, the pattern of her thoughts. He figures if he was a poet he could easily liken them to a clear, fast moving, river.

“I’ll send a recommendation for UNIT if you need it, which you won’t,” Lillian rolls her eyes changing the subject without a pause; at this point even she is unwilling to start an argument they’ve had a million times. “I’d sent one for Cardiff, but if there’s a way to guarantee you won’t get a position there, that’s it. Also, I’m leaving your codes active when you go.”

“Don’t do that!” Ianto looks over a patrol roster and signs off on it blindly – Williams isn’t an idiot, he’s sure it’s fine. “If you do that, I’m still technically top floor. Besides, worst case scenario, it’s not like they’re necessary anyway.”

“Navigating the network in Boeshane takes too long if you’re not sure what you’re doing,” Lillian points out, “and besides, you’ve rebuilt Torchwood One. You’re never not going to be top floor, active or not, and I’d feel better knowing that if you wanted or needed, you had.”

Ianto visibly hesitates before saying, “If my Director codes are still activated, then I could technically override your orders. Not that I couldn’t in Boeshane, but this would do it legally.”

“Good,” she says frankly, “I want you checking up on me, giving me advice, and what not. I may have ten times your experience, but I’m not cut out to be a leader. You are – you just got shoved into it a bit earlier than probably wise. So, you finish tying up your loose ends, go off to Cardiff, and I’ll stay here and try to get us up to snuff at being what we were, minus all the corruption. I’ll be calling you for consults, just so you know.”

Ianto smiles, unwilling to admit he’d been nervous at blindly handing over the reign to someone else, even if it is Lillian. Now he’s pleased he doesn’t have to. “Thank you.”

 

It’s closer to two weeks when he packs up his flat and moves to Cardiff – most of his things are being kept in storage, since he’s staying at his brother’s until he knows whether he’s staying or going back to London. He has a few suitcases when he knocks on the door, which is thrown open a minute later.

“Ianto!” Jenny exclaims, pulling him into the biggest hug her little frame can manage, “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I’ve been worried to death, and Tegan hasn’t been the most reassuring man ever!”

“Well, he’s pretty pants at most things,” he agrees, squeezing back until she gently pulls away. “You’re looking good.”

She swats at his arm, putting one hand over her protruding stomach. “Quiet you! I’m barely half way through my second trimester and I feel like a whale. I don’t remember either of the boys being this big.”

“Maybe it’ll be a rugby player,” he suggests, picking up his things and following Jenny to the kitchen.

“Perish the thought,” she scolds, “I’ll have heart attacks.”

Ianto grins, glad to be back to, well not home, but something close. “Tegan at work?”

“And the kids are at school,” she agrees, “I was about to go do the shopping, so you’ll be all be your lonesome while you settle in, just like you like it.”

He shoves her lightly, but doesn’t deny it. “I think I’m going to head up to the mountainous areas when I go out, I haven’t been there since I left.”

“Don’t get lost and bring a cell phone in case you do!” she says, grabbing the car keys, “Have fun!”

“You too,” he calls back, amused at the domesticity of the moment.

 

This kind of shit only happens to him, he swears to God.

“You’re a pteranodon,” he says blankly, looking down at the large creature snapping at him from his perch on the tree he’d hastily climbed. “God, the rift here must be unreal. I guess Torchwood Three really is like blondes; they must have more fun.”

He knows he should be panicking, but he’s too well trained for that. Now he doesn’t know what the hell, because seriously? This shit hadn’t come up in London’s standard manual. Zombies had, though. He’d know how to handle a zombie, but a dinosaur? No clue. He shifts to try to get into more comfortable position straddling the limb, but when he does a few of the Hershey’s minis he’d stuffed into his pocket fall out.

The pteranodon’s attention moves from him to the little wrapped bars on the ground, and it pokes at them with its beak for a moment before seemingly giving up and swallowing them whole. The low, vaguely threatening noise it has been making in the back of its throat tapers off, and it sits back on its haunches, blinking up at him. It kinds of reminds him of a puppy.

Ianto bangs his head against the limb a few times, because of course the prehistoric dinosaur had been chasing him for his chocolate. How is this his life?

It makes another noise, kind of like a soft whine, and Ianto straightens. He considers for a moment being smart about this, but what the hell. He takes another of the little bars from his pocket and unwraps it, dangling it in-between his thumb and forefinger in front of the dinosaur. It snaps forward and tries to take flight, but there are too many branches in the way to allow it. “Good pteranodon,” Ianto croons, “now take a step back for me, yeah?”

It snaps at him. Well, it was worth a shot.

He waits at least a half hour before the animal stops trying to bite his hand off and it settles down again. He hadn’t known that giant, man eating dinosaur birds could look despondent. Once he’s sure the animal really has settled down, he throws it the bit of chocolate, which it swallows in one smooth motion. It’s at least moderately intelligent, more than the average dog it’s impersonating, because instead of going back to snapping at him, it makes a big show of settling down again, and then just looks up at him. Ianto takes another chocolate piece, unwraps it, and drops it down to the animal, who swallows it whole again. Once again it settles.

He cautiously moves from his branch down to another one, ready to jump back up again if it makes any sudden movements. It stays staring at him, piercing him with what he is starting to realize is oddly an intelligent gaze, “Just how smart are you?” he muses without thinking, but the pteranodon stretches its neck up to him at the sound and nothing more. He waits a little longer, and gives it another piece. That’s how it goes for the next hour and a half: Ianto moves down the tree, stops to see if he’s going to be killed by a prehistoric creature, and when that fails to happen gives said creature a piece of chocolate.

That continues until Ianto’s finally at the branch closest to the ground, the dinosaur’s head a few scant feet below his dangling shoes. It gives a little squawk and head butts the bottom of his trainer, nearly giving him a heart attack, but doesn’t do anything more. He drops another piece to it.

It curls up on the ground below him, and it’s blinking has gone slow and heavy. “Tired, are you?” he asks, and like the few other times he’s said something it makes an odd low, sound. Ianto thinks it means it likes the sound of his voice, but he’s not sure. “If you were asleep, this would be a lot easier, I admit.”

He thinks that if anyone finds out he’s done this, ever, he’ll have to retcon them to avoid the embarrassment, never mind the dinosaur bit. He wets his lips, thinking back to afternoons of his mother singing softly as she did the dishes.

“Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,  
Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon di?  
A'th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,  
Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?  
Pa le mae'r wên oedd ar dy wefus  
Fu'n cynnau 'nghariad ffyddlon ffôl?  
Pa le mae sain dy eiriau melys,  
Fu'n denu'n nghalon ar dy ôl?”

By the time he’s finished the last verse, it’s curled up into a position that doesn’t look comfortable at all, but its eyes are closed and it’s letting out soft wheezing noises on its every exhale. Ianto climbs down carefully, leaving the rest of the chocolates unwrapped in a small pile before the pteranodon. “I’ll be back,” he says, knowing that it can’t be left to wander in the Welsh mountains. He’s not sure he knows what he’s going to do with it yet, but he’ll worry about that later.

 

He calls his brother once he’s off the mountainside, and he picks up on the third ring, “You didn’t die, did you?” he asks, half a joke and half actual worry.

“Nope,” Ianto answers, “a work thing came up, and I had to take care of it. Well, I still have to take care of it, but not tonight at any rate.”

“A work thing?” Tegan repeats, “You’ve barely been gone twelve hours! What could they need you for already?”

“Not a London work thing, more like a general issue that needs to be dealt with.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before Tegan sighs, “That doesn’t mean anything to me, but okay. Are you heading back now? Jenny’s making lasagna.”

His stomach grumbles, and a grin breaks across his face, “Yeah, I am. I’ll need a shower though.”

“Not going to ask!” his brother declares cheerfully, “See you soon!”

 

The next morning finds him standing in front of the coffee maker in despair. “Not up to your usual standards?” Jenny teases.

Ianto pokes at the coffee beans, and he woke up choking on his own tears twice last night, and the second time it had been Tegan shaking him awake, pulling him into his arms and alternating between kissing his forehead and gently shushing him so he wouldn’t wake Jenny. “I’m going to go out and find some real coffee. I’ll bring some back so you and Tegan’s taste buds can possibly be saved.”

“Have fun,” she says, kissing him on the cheek before he leaves.

He ends up driving to the coffee shop he used to go to when he wanted to study and couldn’t find any quiet in between Rhiannon throwing a fit or his father losing his temper. Its couches are scuffed and the tables are worn, but as soon as he walks in he’s out of Cardiff’s bitter chill and assaulted with warmth and the smell of coffee and freshly bakes pastries.

There’s no one in line, so he when he gets in front of the counter there’s a fit boy that seem vaguely familiar. He begins to panic when he breaks out in a wide smile and calls, “Ianto Jones!”

“Er, hello,” he greets.

The other boy, dark haired and a few inches shorter than him with bright, white teeth, laughs and says, “Don’t recognize me do you? No one ever does anymore. Griffin Kai.”

“Bloody hell!” Ianto says, genuinely surprised. They’d been casual mates up until everybody split ways to attend University or Tech. The last time he’d seen Griffin he’s been about thirty pounds overweight and off to some college in the states. They’d gotten along because they were both smarter than the other kids, but that had been about all they had in common. “I thought you’d gone and gotten the hell out of Cardiff?”

“Back at you,” Griffin says, leaning his hip against the counter, “Off to Oxford, far away from all us little people.”

“Quiet you!” he laughs, “You got into some overpriced university in America, didn’t you?”

“Princeton, I graduated early,” he hums, “Now I’m here working through my MD.”

“You’re going to be a doctor?” Ianto asks, thinking that suited loud, friendly Griffin pretty well.

“Yep – the plan is to be a cardiologist. I figure that leads to the best pick up lines,” he started making a coffee as he talked, “What about you?”

“I didn’t finish at Oxford, I got offered a junior position at an insurance firm.” He can’t stick with the drifter story he’s been feeding his parents, besides that’s what he’s listed as doing on public record as anyway. He doesn’t think he could stand the shame of going ‘You’re in school to be a doctor? Brilliant. I’m a cashier.’

Griffin pauses, “You’re working in insurance?”

“Was, the place got caught up in that terrorist attack a few months back. They’re mostly up and running, but there were a lot of staff positions cut.”

“Yeah, that makes sense and all. I just never figured you for one to end up at a nine to five is all. D’you like it?” he asks, pushing over a coffee to Ianto. It’s a cinnamon latte, not something he’d typically get, but it smells good.

“Thanks,” he takes a sip and blinks, it really is good. “No, not really, but the pay was fantastic.”

Griffin grins, “You’re welcome. So what are you looking for now?”

“The place has a smaller branch over here that I’m going to check out, but if that doesn’t work out, there’s this place in London that wouldn’t be terrible to work at,” the less lies told the easier they are to keep straight. “So you’re paying for med school by being a barista?”

“Partially,” he says, “the other parts scholarship, and the rest is I work a couple shifts at the local gym as a personal trainer,” he reaches over the counter to punch Ianto in the shoulder, “I’d offer to whip you into shape, but you don’t look like you need it.”

Ianto frowns, “I could be better – after the fire and everything, I let myself go a little.” It was bit hard to work out when you couldn’t leave a hospital bed.

Griffin shrugs, “Work out with me then – I can tell by looking at you that you at least know what you’re doing. It’d be fun, besides everyone else I knew from school has buggered off, and all the friends I’ve made at Uni have sticks shoved up their arses.”

Ianto considers it. He hasn’t had a friend outside of Torchwood since he started there, and Griffin and he hadn’t been the best of friends before, but it looks like they’ve both changed since then. He can’t see what it would hurt. “Sure. Here’s my number,” he grabs one of the napkins and scribbles the civilian number down, although it’s the same phone. “I’m going to spend now through the weekend sorting stuff out, but my life should settle into some form of normality after that.”

“I go running in the morning if you’re up for getting up at the asscrack of dawn,” Griffin offers, tucking the napkin into his back pocket.

“Deal,” Ianto agrees, “How much do I owe you for the coffee?”

Griffin waves his hand, “On the house, don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?” he frowns.

“Positive, this has been fun. See you Monday, Ianto!”

“Monday,” he agrees, a smile curling his lips as he walks out the door, latte in hand.

 

He’s scoped out the Hub some, and now he’s sitting in his car in the middle of the mountains, a bag full of Hershey’s minis in the passenger seat beside him. He knows he couldn’t get out of this place fast enough as a kid, but now as an adult he’s a little intoxicated with it, all of the calm familiarity after the events of Canary Warf that still catch him gasping for breath and with tears in his eyes. Besides, he really can’t fucking stand UNIT.

He has his phone out of his pocket dialing before he can change his mind, “Jenny? Can you give me the name of that real estate agent friend you’d mentioned?”

“Oh you’re staying!” her delighted voice answers down the line before giving him her friend’s name and number.

He feels much more centered and calm when he goes to train the pteranodon with chocolate, which he considers a plus.

 

He plans on getting a little flat that’s not too dissimilar to the one he had in London and that’s close to the hub. What he ends up with is a five bedroom, near million euro house up on a secluded hill in a patch of forest about a fifteen minute drive from the Hub. He really had the longest driveway ever, and he had no idea what he was going to do with a place this huge.

Halley, Jenny’s friend, had at first tried to gently dissuade him after the pictures had fallen out of her files and he’d become entranced, certain it was far, far out of his price range. However, five years of Top Floor with barely any bills and no free time had led to the couple million pounds allotted to them each year to add up – and gain a smidgen of interest on top of it all. He didn’t know why he was even considering it, but he’d walked into the large, open house with windows and back yard, with fabulous marble countertops and it had felt like home. It was such a novel sensation to walk into someplace besides his own office and feel as if he belonged there that he wasn’t even sure what to do with it. He decides Torchwood Three can wait a little while – he’s going to have a run at being normal for a while. He’s almost certain it’s going to end up being a totally failed experiment, but it should be fun at least.

 

He spends Christmas with his brother, thoroughly spoiling his nephews and attempting to sweet talk his little niece in Jenny’s belly. His brother is helping him settle into his new house – mocking him at every opportunity for having four guest bedrooms. Christmas Eve, though, he spends half on the phone with Lillian dealing with the latest earth shattering disaster that’s hit, and then the latter half getting drunk with Griffin. At some point during the night they end up kissing, and then groping, and then fucking.

They wake up in the morning completely embarrassed, and without any real desire to repeat the experience. Ianto feels a little like laughing to express his joy after their daily run – Christmas morning and awkward drunk sex or no – and Griffin and he grin at each other over coffee and toast and don’t start dating.

Ianto knows one thing for sure is that he wants to spend the remainder of his free time having a ton of sex with a lot of people before he has to start comparing them to Jack and finding them lacking. The thing is, he’s not in love with Jack yet – in lust, without a doubt, but love’s a whole other ball game. He hasn’t known the other man well enough yet – a brief few hours with a man who fucked him as a thank you, and a scant couple of weeks with another who could tell him nothing, who was broken, who’d from the sounds of it spent a decent amount of time being tortured at least mentally. That break had left him craving Ianto, and he’s okay with that. He’s pleased by it, knows that if time behaves as it’s supposed to he’ll fall hard in love Jack before coming to an untimely death. But right now, he’s not in love. He’s curious, flustered, and attracted to him – but for right now Ianto Jones is not in love with Jack Harkness.

He almost wants to fuck with the time stream a little, and not fall in love at all, because the only thing he’s certain of right now is that it’s probably going to hurt all parties involved. He doesn’t know if a few scant years of great sex are worth all that.


	6. Part VI

PART VI

All right, so his “normal” life involves a pet pteranodon, a barrister job he shares with a good friend on top of a ridiculous, incredibly fun spot of employment as a bartender. He’s been called to Torchwood One by Lillian on three separate occasions over the past two months, but each time the world pointedly neither ends nor blows up, and he counts it a win.

He still in love with his bloody massive house, and Griffin has taken to teasingly nagging him about finding a girl and popping out some kids to fill it with, but Ianto knows that’s not in his future. He hopes it isn’t at least. In the meanwhile, Griffin’s grabbed his own girl, and Ianto thinks she would have gotten along with Yvonne if only because they were both kind of bad asses.

“Morning Ianto!” Clara greets when she stumbles in from her morning run just as Ianto and Griffin are lacing up for theirs. “Have I told you how lovely, and perfect, and awesome you are lately?”

Griffin makes a mock affronted sound and Ianto rolls his eyes, “There’s coffee waiting for you in the pot.”

“I love you,” she says, and Griffin grabs her around the waist even though she’s totally soaked in sweat and kisses her hard on the mouth.

“Tick tock,” Ianto drawls after a moment, and Griffin releases her.

“Have fun!” she calls, walking to one of the guest showers.

“I feel like I should start charging you guys rent,” he complains as they start out at a slow jog.

“Only on Saturdays!” Griffin says. He gives Ianto a sidelong glance that Ianto thinks was supposed to be covert, but he’s pretty he makes it clear it isn’t when he cocks his eyebrow and tilts his head to the side. “You were screaming last night, again. It didn’t last very long, but Clara woke up before me, and when I got up you were asleep and she was crawling back in bed with me. Apparently, she woke you up, and you stopped screaming, and fell back asleep.”

“Oh,” Ianto says, “I thought that was a dream. Sorry.”

Griffin shrugs, “I know getting caught in the terrorist attack fucked with your head, and it’s understandable. Besides, PC Oswald has dealt with more nerve wracking things, but if she suddenly bakes you cookies, you know why.”

“Thanks,” Ianto sighs, before deciding he’s too lazy to warm up this morning, and he knows he’ll regret it later but he kicks it up, going into a steady run despite Griffin’s shout of protest.

 

It’s later that night when his plan to pretend like Torchwood – when he’s not unofficially helping to run it – doesn’t exist shatters. He’s honestly surprised he managed two months out of it. He’s flipping through a large book on avian biology because Lillian had sent him the report on an unknown alien corpse they’d found, purely because she thought he’d find it interesting, and he has, which is why he’s trying to see if the alien’s wing’s bone structure had a corresponding mate in an Earth bird species.

He’s thinking it’s almost like swan when there’s a loud, high screech that has him out of his seat and running into his backyard before he can think better of it – Myfanwy knows better than to come to his home unless it’s an emergency, and Ianto doesn’t think he’s ever heard that particular sound from her before.

When he gets there, she’s spitting and hissing at a group of four that seem to be intent on attacking her. Ianto sees red and shouts, “Get away from her! Now!”

Four heads swivel in his direction, and he swallows, because now he has the members of Torchwood Three staring at him, and this really isn’t how he’d planned for their first meeting to go. They exchange a series of looks while he stands there scowling in his sweats and Sato says, “Excuse me sir, but an extremely dangerous animal has escaped from the zoo, so if you could please return to your home and allow us to – ”

Ianto snorts so loudly that she stops talking, and says, “Put down your weapons, I’m not a moron. She’s pteranodon, and you’re scaring her. Back off.”

There’s another series of looks exchanged, and Ianto is tightly wound because various guns are still being pointed toward Myfanwy. “Who are you?” Jack – no Harkness, oh screw it, Jack – asks, his voice low and vaguely threatening.

“Ianto Jones,” he misses Owen’s sharp look in his direction, “nice coat, also, you’re not bloody listening to me. Soon she’s going to lose her patience and attack you, and I’m going to let her.”

“Why isn’t it now?” Costello asks.

“I’ve trained it out of her. Now, you have five seconds to lower your weapons and back off before I allow her to make you.”

“You’ve trained the pteranodon?” Sato demands.

Ianto’s tired of this, and snaps, “Yes!” and then has to prove it a moment later when Myfanwy tries to take a bite out of Harper and barks, “Heel!” She responds, immediately crouching down and dipping her head to the ground. “Good girl,” he croons, walking past the stunned Torchwood members to stand in front of her. He places a light pat on the top of her beak and says, “Off you go now. I’ll handle this.” Once again proving her scary amount of intelligence, she flies off and no one tries to stop her. He sighs before turning around to face them, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to leave me in peace for the rest of the night?”

“Nope!” Jack answers with a cheer he doesn’t feel.

Ianto gestures for them to follow him, noticing stoically that they still haven’t put away their weapons, “Come on then. I’ll make coffee – it’s freezing out here.”

The cautiously follow him into his house, and Suzie lets out a low whistle. Ianto rolls his eyes as he sets up the coffee maker, then heaves himself so he’s sitting on his counter. He waves in the general area, “Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes though – you’re tracking mud everywhere.”

They all look to Jack, who shrugs and nods, and they do as asked. Owen makes a sound of surprise that has Ianto wanting to slap his hand over his face and Jack walking over to see what’s caught his medic’s attention. Ianto doesn’t flinch as the barrel of a gun is aimed at his face, “Those are pictures of a Calyop corpse.” Having Jack looking at him that way after the one from the future had loved him and this Jack had cared for him doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, but it still hurts.

“Is it?” he says, hopping down and opening one of the drawers. Jack shouts some sort of warning, but Ianto just removes a pen and a small notepad, “Can you spell that?”

They’re all looking at him like he’s grown another head, although that had happened to one of his agents during his second year, so maybe not. “What?” he huffs, “You attempt to kidnap my pteranodon, barge your way into my house, and now you’re pointing guns at me!”

“Who are you?” Jack repeats, his voice severe and his face cold. Ianto wants to tell him the truth, wants to place his hands on Jack’s brow and break the hold the retcon has on his memories and kiss that delicious mouth. He has, in fact, resisted the temptation to do so on numerous occasions. Ianto’s a bigger girl than he’d admit though; he doesn’t want Jack to love him because he fixed his head or because he knows that he will in the future. He wants Jack to decide of his own free will, with no outside influence, that he wants Ianto more than anyone else.

Ianto wants the opportunity to make the same choice, but he figures his free will in this situation has been pretty much fucked to hell.

He hadn’t asked and Jack hadn’t told, but he knows he dies young. Not only because of statistics associated with Torchwood, but if Ianto’s dying words were his declaration of love to Jack, he can’t imagine they’d had a chance to know each other very long, to get far into their relationship. So it’d make sense to snatch every moment he can with Jack, since he knows he won’t be getting very many. But he’s too selfish for that by far, and he wants all of Jack by his own choice, or none of him at all.

“Mr. Jones,” Sato says, and Ianto blinks, coming back to the here and now and the four people standing in his kitchen with guns.

The coffee machine whirs its completion, and he goes to get mugs while he talks, aware of the guns trained on his back, “I was Torchwood One, but I was born and raised in Cardiff. After Canary Warf, I came back,” he motions to encompass their surroundings with the hand that isn’t taking out the cream, “I used the money I got after to buy this place.”

At the mention of Torchwood, their wariness has if anything increased. “If you’re not involved in Torchwood One anymore, what’s with the autopsy photos?” Harper asks.

“Help yourself,” he points to the four mugs, cream, and sugar. “I was a Junior researcher there, a pretty good one, and the new staff is doing really well at getting caught up with everything, but sometimes Director Kale will shove something in my direction if the new guys aren’t giving her the results she wants.”

Jack slowly lowers his gun, and the others do the same. Ianto’s glad, because he’d been itching to tell them how very not-intimidating they looked holding firearms in their socks. “So you’re a consultant?”

Ianto makes a face, even though it’s true. Which, ironically, is one of the only true things he’ll be telling them. “Yes, I suppose.” He smiles in satisfaction when Sato takes a sip of her coffee and lets loose a moan that’s more appropriate in a porno.

The others seems to agree, because that all turn to her and Jack says “Tosh!” with a smile.

“Just taste it,” she says, taking another sip, “we need to enslave him to make us coffee.”

They all blink, and because Torchwood Three is honest to God run and manned by very ADD eight year olds, they ignore Ianto to fix and drink their coffee. Harper’s appreciation is quieter this time, and his eyes just flutter shut as he sighs. Costello joins Sato in the porn making, and Jack just stares at Ianto with a look on his face that’s starting to make the younger man nervous.

“Where’d you learn to make coffee?” he asks, and Ianto panics for a moment before saying smoothly, “I’m a barrister.”

“You went from Junior Researcher to tea boy?” Harper asks, and Ianto blinks at the venom in the older man’s voice.

“I’d had enough excitement to last me a while,” he answers carefully.

“So aliens are too much, but dinosaurs are fair game?” the doctor demands, and Ianto can’t figure out what he’s done to make the man dislike him so much.

“Right!” Jack says, reminded why they’re here in the first place. “We’ll be confiscating her.”

Ianto glares, “Absolutely not. Even if I wanted to, she’s a fucking giant prehistoric flying lizard. It’s not like they have playpens for them.”

“Our headquarters are large,” Costello shrugs, but Ianto recognizes the distant look in her eyes and has to repress a shiver – it reminds him of Hartman in her less than same moments, the gleam her eyes had taken when Ianto had pressed his hand to her throat and she’d cackled.

“I worked for Torchwood London,” he doesn’t have to force the dark undercurrent in his tone, “and if you think for a second I’m going to let you get your hands on her, then you are obviously underestimating me.”

Ianto twitches, because he’s probably just overplayed his hand, but Jack laughs, “How are you going to stop us?”

“I won’t have to,” he says coolly, “clearly none of you are natives, and she’ll be staying in the mountains, unless I go to retrieve her, after you’ve hunted her and she felt the need to retreat to here. Those areas can be confusing to those of us that have grown up around them. Good luck on your own.”

Jack has an expression on his face of reluctantly impressed, and Ianto can’t tell if it’s fake or not. If anything, it's at his gall rather than at the truth of his statement, since Jack has been living in Cardiff longer than Ianto's grandparents. And that was not a thought he needed.

Jack says, “You have some balls.”

Ianto has to take a moment to not act like a complete twenty two year old because – seriously? But he keeps his face and voice firm when he says, “So I’ve heard.”

“So there’s no way you’re going to let us take her in?” he says slowly.

“Well,” Ianto matches his cadence of speech to Jack’s, “you could offer me a job.”

There’s a period of dead silence before “We’re not hiring.”

“Jack,” Sato hisses, “it’s really good coffee.”

Jack tosses her a look of incredulity before turning back to Ianto, and he looks like he’s going to argue more when his wrist strap begins to beep. He curses, the other three tense, and Ianto physically feels the strain of not smirking. “I’ll be back,” Jack says, stern, and obviously he’s never seen the Terminator.

Ianto shrugs as they scramble to put on their shoes, “I’ll make coffee,” he grins when he notices both Costello and Sato’s longing glance to their abandoned mugs on the counter. “I really do like the coat!” he calls out just before the door falls shut, just in time for Jack to glance back with a scowl before the closed door blocks him out.

“Well,” Ianto muses, leaning back against the counter, “it could have gone worse. It could have gone better, yes, but it definitely could have gone worse.”

 

After that, it’s basically comical. Ianto actually calls up Lillian to see if she’s orchestrating any of it, but she denies it through her laughter and he believes her.

The first time, he’s out on a run. It’s not even like he’s taking an unusual route, or anything, it’s simply him moving through the park on the same path, just like always. What makes it different than just-like-always is the weevil that attacks him. Ianto can hold his own, and he’s hardly a weakling, especially since he’s spent the past few months training with Griffin, but that doesn’t mean being thrown flat on his back by a two hundred pound weevil hurts any less. He has a moment of panic even as he’s trying to push the thing off of him that this is it, he’s going to die in the middle of the night because of a bloody weevil. He barely has time to finish the thought before something’s helping to pull the alien off of him, and then he can breathe again.

He looks up to see Jack fighting the weevil, the big dramatic coat a definite disadvantage as the weevil uses it to pull him off balance and sink its teeth into Jack’s neck. Ianto’s on his feet before he can think about it, gaining a bit of momentum before slamming into the alien, managing to detangle it from Jack. He jabs it in the soft pallet under its jaw, and it makes a light keening noise and pauses just long enough for Jack to pull out some spray that makes it hiss and spit. He kicks it hard enough that when it falls to ground, its head makes a sharp thump against the paved path before stilling, unconscious at the very least.

Ianto breathes in a great lungful of air, adrenaline and the physical tiredness from his run making him short of breath. He looks over to Jack’s similarly heaving form and impulsively takes a step forward, reaching out a hand to him. “You’re bleeding,” Jack shieds away and Ianto remembers that it doesn’t matter, Jack’s immortal, and it’s not his place to worry over him regardless. “You were bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse from shaving,” he dismisses, ignoring his blood soaked side and Ianto raises an eyebrow but doesn’t bother to correct him. Jack looks down at the weevil for a moment and then back up to Ianto, his gaze lingering. It’s then the younger man realizes he’s in shorts and a white shirt, sweat soaked so the thin material chills and clings to his skin, which is smeared with dirt and blood. He knows enough about Jack to realize he might as well be a woman in lingerie to him, and he rolls back his shoulders slow so Jack realizes it’s deliberate.

Jack snorts, and Ianto cracks a grin. He thinks back to that very first meeting in Yvonne’s office, when Jack had looked him up and down, thought he was a butler, and Ianto had been childishly pleased that his suit covered him from his chin to the tips of his toes encased in his shiny black shoes. It was only four years ago, and the thought is sobering enough that his grin softens to a smile. “So,” he says, putting just enough drawl in his tone that Jack can tell he’s being mocked, “you come here often?”

An echo of his earlier grin flashes across Jack’s face before he coughs and schools his face into a suitably stoic position. “When the need arises,” his eyes flicker down to the weevil, “uh, thank you, for the help.”

As if Jack had been in any danger – if anything Ianto had been bait. But he’s not supposed to know that, so he says easily, “Same. Do you need help with that?”

Jack doesn’t answer, just bends down to throw the alien over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “I’ve got it. I’ll see you around, Mr. Jones.”

“Does that mean I have a job, Captain?” Ianto calls out to his back.

Jack calls back cheerfully, “Nope!”

Ianto stands there, grinning, for a while before shaking his head and completing his run. It’s a little easier to be patient when he knows he’s going to succeed.

 

Clara’s grin is bright as she leans over the counter, “Boyfriend of mine!”

“Yes?” Ianto says in tandem with Griffin, just to be a dick, and gets a rag thrown in his face.

“You should make me a cappuccino,” she widens her eyes and purses her lips, looking ridiculous and knowing it.

Ianto snorts and starts by putting a pump of raspberry syrup at the bottom of the cup – she won’t ask for it, but she loves it really. Griffin frowns, “Caffeine? You’re halfway through your run.” She’s sweat soaked and it’s five in the morning, having adjusted her time and route so it’s a ten mile run this morning, so she can see her boyfriend and jog the five miles here and back to her apartment.

“And?” she raises an eyebrow, “I’m not in training. And I like coffee.”

Griffin glares, and Ianto passes over her cup, and she darts forward to place a delicate kiss on his cheek, which doesn’t soften Griffin’s glare any. “Don’t you have some parking tickets to give out or something?”

She laughs, and that she can shrug off Griffin’s acid tone is part of the reason they work so well together. “I occasionally do more than that – like murders, and break ins, and stuff. I should have my own television show,” she concludes brightly.

Griffin doesn’t soften, and Ianto supposes Clara could have been a bit more tactful about the murders; she knows Griffin worries. “You’d be a hit,” he assures, moving over to the coffee machine to grab his second cup of the morning.

“Totally,” she nods her head, “oh, Gwen, friend from work, invited me over for dinner and drinks at her place. Want to come?”

Griffin blinks, “Do I have to?”

Ianto resists the urge to bang his head against the shiny copper coffee machine. This is why Griffin could never keep a girlfriend in secondary.

“No,” she says easily, “but I want you to.”

Griffin fights with himself for a minute before nodding, “Time?”

Clara breaks out in a wide, happy smile that melts his prickly friend even more. Her answer of “Seven!” is drowned out by the bells that are hung from the door jingling as it’s swung open. They don’t usually get customers this early, and Ianto has to resist the urge to break into laughter when he sees the swishy, blue military coat. Ianto knows the second Jack recognizes him, not because he freezes or anything as obvious as that, but by slight, quick, erratic jerk of his eyelids.

“Are you stalking me?” he asks as he saunters to the counter. Ianto cocks his hip and smiles slow, ignoring the curious gazes of his friends.

“If anything, I’d say it’s the other way around,” he says cheerfully, “Coffee machine broken?”

Both Jack’s voice and eyes are sharp when he demands, “How’d you know that?”

Ianto raises an eyebrow and gestures to encompass the shop as a whole, “You’re here.”

Jack stares a moment before coughing. “Yes. Well. I need coffee.” He just stares at Ianto as if that’s enough information, and he doesn’t know if it’s intended as a challenge, but he intends to take it as one. He knows Clara and Griffin’s silence now means he’s going to be interrogated later, but he’s willing to take that exchange.

He begins making coffee, aware of Jack staring at him the entire time. He makes a dirty chai latte for Costello, a tall Americano with cream but no sugar for Sato, and a raspberry Mocha for Owen. He makes Jack an Americano with three turbo shots and crap ton of cream and sugar – he remembers how he took it in the future, even if his Torchwood file claims he takes it black. Ianto’s pretty sure it’s a tactic to make him look badass at inter-departmental meetings, which he’s also pretty sure is just unnecessary suffering on Jack’s part. He sticks the cups in a carry-tray, sliding it across the counter and looking Jack in the eyes and smiling the same slow stretch of his mouth that he knows drives the Captain up the wall.

Jack reaches for the one with ‘Captain’ scrawled across the top and takes a tentative sip, nearly unnoticeable signs of stress slackening on his face at the taste, “This isn’t on my file.”

“I’m good at my job,” Ianto says, “you could benefit from it, if you’d hire me.”

Jack doesn’t shoot him down for a good fifteen seconds, lips pulled down at the corners, “We’re not hiring. How much do I owe you?”

Ianto shrugs, inwardly glad it hadn’t been that easy – this game they’re playing is rather fun, although he doesn’t know if Jack knows it’s a game. “On the house, Captain. If you’re too stuck up to accept it as an investment, then I know you’re at least vain enough to take it as payment for the view,” he slides his gaze up an over the lines of Jack’s body, and remembers the smooth hard planes of muscle that he knows will be just the same when he gets to see and touch them next, just like four years in the past and some eleven hundred years in the future.

Jack’s not giving anything away in his face, but his body is angled toward Ianto’s when it wasn’t before, and the Welshman wonders if he’s doing it on purpose or not. “Goodbye Mr. Jones,” he says with the sort of finality Ianto knows he’s supposed to take seriously, but he just winks in return.

He can tell Jack is reluctantly amused by him, but he doesn’t say anything as he leaves the café, coffees in hand.

“What the hell?” Griffin demands as soon as the door is shut. “Who was that, why are you trying to get a job from him, and are you sleeping with him?”

“If not, then you should be,” Clara adds, eyes still trailing to the place where Jack used to be. Griffin makes a vaguely offended sound, but his heart’s not in it.

Ianto rolls his eyes, and contemplates what to tell his easy going (when it wasn’t concerning his girlfriend) new-old friend who’d he’d grown fond and close to over the past couple of months and his kind, tough girlfriend who’d accepted their oddness with little more than an entreaty to be kept constantly caffeinated.

“I’m not sleeping with him,” he begins after swallowing a mouthful of his own coffee, “he’s the guy that runs the sister branch to the insurance firm I was working for in London, and the job I’m trying to get off of him is actually the reason I came back to Cardiff in the beginning, so this isn’t anything new.” He grins, “If anything, this is progress.”

Griffin seems to buy it easily enough, but Clara deals with shifty people for a living and she spends another half minute frowning at him before she’s distracted by Griffin. Ianto may have to keep an eye on her, but hopes she isn’t smart enough to put anything together – he’s pretty sure retconning your mate’s girl is a huge faux paus.

 

It’s almost a week and a half later when there’s a loud pounding on his door in the middle of the night, and he has the early shift tomorrow, so this is not cool. He’s in nothing more than hastily grabbed boxer-briefs when he yanks the door open and snarls “What?” into Jack’s face. He shakes his head, becoming a little more coherent at the blend of sheepish and anxious in the man’s expression. “What’s wrong?” He wonders for a wild moment if it’s one of the team, and he and Suzie haven’t ever really hit it off, but the thought of any of them hurt has him feeling slightly nauseous, and that’s probably the type of dangerous he should be trying to avoid after the death of his entire team, but it’s a little late to be worrying about it.

“I may have made a slight error in judgment,” Jack says carefully, which Ianto translates to ‘I fucked up’ and relaxes anyway, because he can’t imagine Jack, with the lines of his loyalty carved so deeply in his mind that they must have been there before he died for the first time, being so calm if one of his own was in danger.

“Which is?” he asks.

Jack winces, and Ianto feels the tension beginning to pool between his shoulder blades again, “I lured the pterodactyl-”

“Pteranodon,” Ianto corrects.

“Pteranodon,” he says, “and I aggravated it, a little, and it’s gone a little a mad. I have it locked up in a warehouse, and I don’t suppose you know how to get it . . . not anxious to bite everyone’s heads off?”

“I warned you,” Ianto says, retreating back into his house so he can change, “Stay here.”

He pulls on tight jeans, and wishes he’d done laundry. He pulls on a v – neck black t-shirt, and grabs his leather jacket because it at least provides a modicum of protection. When he walks back into his living room with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth and trainers in his hand, Jack’s looking at the pictures hung across the wall. “He your boyfriend?” he asks conversationally.

“I don’t know which he you’re talking about,” he says around his toothbrush before sticking it on the corner of the sink so he can lace up, “but no, he’s not.”

“Ah,” Jack says, “girlfriend?”

“I dated the black girl who’s holding two shots,” Ianto informs, coming to stand beside Jack.

“College?”

“London.”

“Oh,” Jack studies the picture more carefully, “Did she-?”

“Partially converted when I found her,” Ianto does his best to keep his voice even, and mostly succeeds, “I made it quick.”

Jack’s gaze is heavy on him, and he knows that he’s breaking some of the man’s perceptions of him with that information, but he’d broken some of his perceptions about himself when he’d done it, so Jack can deal. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ianto says, aching to move on from this topic of conversation, not needing another reason to fall back into the sharp, bitter betrayal he’d felt against the Jack from the future. “Now, let’s go calm down a dinosaur,” he pats his pockets to make sure he has all the necessary supplies and moves toward the front door, Jack on his heels. “We’ll take your car, yeah?”

 

“Chocolate?” Jack hisses, pulling Ianto to the ground to avoid another swipe of the animal’s claws.

“Preferably dark,” he says, pushing himself up after nearly a full minute with no sound from her. “You must have really pissed her off. I guess we’ll have to go with sedation.”

“I told you!” Jack throws himself across the room when Myfanwy screeches and tries to bite off his head as she flies over him. Ianto knows this is serious, but the sight is amusing enough that he allows himself a soft snort of laughter. Myfanwy finally lands, edged back from both of them, although most of her anxiety seems to be directed toward Jack. 

“Stay there for a second and let me-” Ianto watches in disbelief as Jack charges at Myfanwy, getting caught in her claws as she takes off and he injects her with the sedation serum. He curses, jogging beneath them as Jack laughs like the madman and child that he is. The drug starts to take effect, and he falls from Myfanwy’s loosening grasp.

Ianto has about two seconds to panic before Jack’s fallen on top of him, rolling their bodies out of the way of possible collapsing pteranodon, chuckling all the while. They stop with Ianto on top, the planes of his own body pressed against Jack’s, breathing in the other man’s breath, his joy and delight making his face look years younger, even temporarily removing the world weary look from his eyes. The carefree look remains, but it also becomes calculating as Jack quiets, stares into Ianto eyes. It’d be so easy to kiss him right now, to fuck him into this cold, dirty warehouse floor; Ianto can feel that Jack’s half hard already. It would take nothing at all to convince Jack to get naked for him, to take his cock in his mouth and suck the other man dry, to then receive the same treatment in return, and Ianto knows from experience that it would be glorious.

Instead, Ianto rolls off of Jack and gets to his feet, not offering him a hand up and keeping his eyes trained away when the other man pulls himself upright. “She should be fine when she wakes up. I’ll take it from here.”

“I really can’t have a civilian playing around with products of the Rift,” Jack isn’t sure what to make of him now, had felt Ianto’s half erection as clearly as Ianto had felt his, and that they aren’t fucking right now intrigues Jack even more than it frustrates him. He’s breaking through all of Jack’s little molds for him tonight, and the older man isn’t happy about it.

“Then give me a job,” Ianto shoots back, tired by the mention of Lisa earlier that now seems to be echoing throughout the rest of the evening.

“Okay.”

Ianto’s head snaps up, “What?”

“Okay,” Jack says, slow, “you’re hired. Show up bright an early.” He gives the younger man one more considering glance before dusting himself off and walking away.

Ianto leans against the cold wall and tips his head back, considering. Somewhere down the line, this game they’ve been playing has spun a little bit from his control into Jack’s. It’s not even dawn yet, and he had a knocked out pteranodon to take of, so quite honestly, it’s too early to deal with this shit.

 

The next day Ianto takes one step in the Hub and nearly has an OCD induced heart attack. The place had made him vaguely twitchy before, but this is just ridiculous. “Is there supposed to be any Rift activity for today?” he asks faintly.

Sato – Tosh, she’d asked him to call her Tosh – frowns and checks the monitor. “Nope, not really.”

“Excellent,” he says, looking at the train wreck that is the Hub, “everyone please get out.”

“Excuse me?” Suzie demands, and the rest of them hardly look pleased either. Tosh and Suzie had been tentatively welcoming, and Owen had looked like he’d wanted to stab him.

“This place is a health hazard. If I’m working here, I’m cleaning it,” he notices a plate that had something fuzzy growing on it and feels the urge to throttle something.

“That’s not really part of your duties,” Jack begins.

“Don’t care,” he answers, “either you let me fix this, or I don’t make coffee, since that’s not really part of my duties either.” He wouldn’t really, because then he’d have to drink whatever it is these people think passes for caffeine, but he’d probably end up killing someone if he had to work in this.

“I’m not leaving you alone in the Hub,” Jack answers firmly.

Ianto shrugs, “Fine. Send everyone else home, you stay, and don’t get in my way.”

Jack looks torn, and Ianto realizes he has got to learn to stop giving orders; that’s not his job anymore. “All right,” the older man agrees, “Off you trot.”

The other three are giving them uncertain looks, but they’re not about to argue over the rare day off.

Ianto ends up driving back to his place to grab a change of clothes and cleaning supplies, and then to the store to get some more. He gets to the Hub, and Jack stays in his office, and even though there are times when Ianto can sense the man watching him, he doesn’t react. The entire place really is disgusting. He ends up scrubbing who knows what from the walls in the medical area, and notes that even if it’s poorly organized, all the necessary tools and equipment are kept sterile and within easy reach. He dusts off everything, scrubs it all down until it’s shining, takes the stacks of trash and plates from Harper’s desk and leaves the various papers and files he’s found scattered around in neat, sorted piles there.

Tosh’s is harder, even though it’s neater, because he has more difficult time figuring out the function of each bit of equipment, but he does, catalogues it all, and reshuffles her instruction manuals and papers until everything is easily found. Suzie’s takes forever, with all the grease and muck and odd parts lying around everywhere. He ends up throwing a large stack of processing forms on her desk, because as far as he can see she doesn’t even know the meaning of paperwork. The kitchen is horrible, although he does get that fabulous alien coffee machine in working order, and the bathroom is going to give him nightmares for years, he just knows it.

The other various nooks and crannies within the Main Hub aren’t too bad out of disuse, although he’s itching to rearrange everyone’s work stations so it’s more efficient. He’s sitting on the edge of the counter in the kitchen with a notepad and pen, making a list of everything he needs to pick up for this place tomorrow, when Jack walks is. He doesn’t say anything, so it takes a moment for Ianto to notice he’s there.

“Captain,” he greets, shifting and then wincing at the protest his muscles make at the movement. There’ll be no morning run for him feeling like this. “Coffee?”

He doesn’t get a response, so he takes a proper look at the man as opposed to just from the corner of his eye. He’s looking around the sparkling kitchen like he doesn’t recognize it, which to be fair he probably doesn’t. “Incredible,” he murmurs.

“Fascinating what can be accomplished with a little elbow grease,” Ianto agrees dryly. “Are there funds for general repair and acquisitions? The toaster is a lost cause, and you’re lacking many basic dishes and silverware. Plus, the microwave and couch are pretty useless, if not collapsing in on themselves. The kitchen might also benefit from having, you know, a table and chairs, and –”

Jack steps forward to cover Ianto’s mouth with his hand, and there’s laughter in his eyes, “It’s eleven at night, Mr. Jones.”

Ianto blinks, “Is it really?” He takes out his stopwatch that he’d kept in his jean pocket, and it is. “Huh,” he usually had a better sense of time than that. “Well, I’m basically finished. If you don’t mind, I’ll come in late tomorrow so I can get all this?” he waves his notebook around.

Jack’s just standing there grinning at him, and Ianto really doesn’t know how to respond to it. It isn’t something either of his Jacks had done before. “Have you eaten?” Jack asks.

Ianto blinks, and realizes no, he hasn’t, not since breakfast and now that Jack’s mentioned it, he’s bloody starving. He groans, “I’m going to go do that now,” he hops down onto his feet and dips his head to Jack, “See you in the morning Captain.”

If he’d looked back, he would have seen a look of parts amusement and disappointment on his face, but he didn’t, so he doesn’t.

 

The others are suitably impressed the next day, and Ianto quickly manages a routine with these people. Suzie and he get along by virtue of extreme sarcasm alone, and he and Tosh are fast becoming very good friends over language – he speaks to her in truly horrible Japanese, and she responds in broken Welsh until they both can’t handle the other butchering their language and go back to English. Owen is actually hilarious when he forgets that he hates Ianto, and the younger man still hasn’t figured that bit out yet. Jack and he aren’t really going anywhere, which on one hand is disappointing and he’s not sure how to handle Jack’s waning interest, but on the other is a bit of a relief.

He’d come in early and stayed late for the entirety of the first week to get both the Hub and the Archives into something resembling order, and apart from heavy flirting – and since Ianto is a living organism, he isn’t particularly impressed – he seems to have slipped off of the other man’s radar, excepting when he’s bringing him coffee or paperwork.

He’s been with Torchwood Three for nearly four months, and it’s nothing like how London was, which is wonderful. To be doing what he loves to do, even if it’s probably the biggest demotion in Torchwood history, is like being able to breathe properly again. He hadn’t known how much he’d missed doing this everyday for the past couple of months until he was back to doing it again, and to be on the bottom of the totem pole as opposed to the top.

Griffin hadn’t batted an eyelash at Ianto’s suddenly long hectic schedule and quitting of his job, accepted the top secret thing with a shrug after extracting a promise that top secret job permitting, they’d still go on their run every morning. It apparently hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what kind of national security secrets an insurance firm could be involved in, but Claris had bugged and badgered him about it until Griffin had distracted her with sex. She’d finally stopped trying to find out what he was up to; she hadn’t been happy about it though.

Now it’s about a week until Christmas, and the Rift had been unexpectedly quiet. He’s at his desk down in the Archives when he gets a phone call, and he accepts it on his blue tooth while relabeling some things from the archives that obviously hadn’t been filed professionally. “Ianto Jones,” he answers, and he hears Lillian sigh on the other end.

“I have bad news,” she says gravely, and Ianto feels something drop in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m listening.”

“We had a chrono-displaced person show up yesterday,” she begins, “and it seems to have been on purpose. He claims he’s from someplace called the Time Agency and keeps demanding to see Jack Harkness. He says his name is John Hart.”

Ianto swears, harsh and loud and in Welsh. He’s made sure to empty almost everything he’d witnessed in Jack’s mind from his own, but those two things had stuck since Jack had mentioned them in his bedroom after. He’d gained only light impressions from the other man, and none of them were good. “Have you confiscated his wrist strap?”

“Of course,” she answers.

Ianto rubs his hand against his forehead, and says, “All right. I’m going to head there as soon as I can.”

“How are you going to manage that?” she asks, and it’s a little bit incredulous. Ianto doesn’t blame her, because he doesn’t really know.

“I’ll figure something out. Just don’t let anyone near him besides observation, and disable the audio so no one can hear what he’s saying. The last thing we need is the time stream getting fucked up.”

“All right,” Lillian says, “I’ll see you soon, I guess,” and hangs up.

Ianto takes a moment to bang his head against his desk, because couldn’t he catch a freaking break. Seriously.

He enters Jack’s office with a large mug of industrial strength coffee. The older man nods his thanks, but when Ianto continues standing by his desk he looks up, an easy smile lighting his face. “Yes?”

Ianto blows out a breath, “I just got a call from a friend in London. She’s going through something difficult, and requested that I come up for a couple of days to see her. I would like to tell her yes.”

Jack frowns, and takes a sip of his coffee. “You have accomplished in four months what I would have been impressed to see in eight. You have seventy two hours starting tomorrow, and if you’re gone any longer there’ll be consequences.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ianto says, the first time he’s referred to him as anything besides Captain and Mr. Harkness, and he sees Jack’s eyes widen and his throat bob before he backs out of the office.

He wonders if that’s the other pet name the Jack from the future had told him about. If it wasn’t before, it is now.

 

When Ianto tilts back in his chair to observe the figure of John Hart mulishly bouncing a rubber ball against the wall in front of him, he’s surprised by the odd, out of time dress but not his general appearance – he hadn’t taken anything about Hart’s looks from Jack’s mind except that John Hart was one of the few people in the world Jack considered truly, honestly beautiful, regardless of the things he’d done. At times, probably because of them.

“Well?” Lillian asks, taking a sip of Ianto-prepared coffee.

Ianto shrugs, letting the chair fall back to all four legs with a dull thud. “He doesn’t appear dangerous. The only thing he’s requesting is to see Jack?”

“Over and over again,” she confirms with a hint of exhaustion. “That and he propositioned the last agent that brought him dinner. Or he was possibly propositioning the dinner – it was a bit hard to tell. He won’t eat any of it.”

Ianto doesn’t think that waiting is going to get him anymore information, and even if it did he’s too impatient for it. John stills as soon as he enters the room, but remains seated with his knees pulled to his chest. “I want to see Captain Jack Harkness.”

“You can’t,” Ianto answers.

There isn’t even a shift in his facial expression, “I want to see Captain Jack Harkness.”

Ianto figures he could stand here arguing with the man for hours, but he’s pretty sure that wasn’t why he was called down. Instead he settles next to John on the floor, and it’s then that he notices that John is significantly younger than Jack at least appears to be – up to a decade and a half younger. He figures right then that this Jack isn’t the one the desolate young man is searching for. He’s closer to Ianto’s age than anything else. The other man still doesn’t turn to look at him, and Ianto reminds himself ‘51st century’ and places a hand on his elbow. “I think you’re a little lost, Mr. Hart.”

John doesn’t respond for a long moment before “I want to see Captain Jack Harkness.”

Ianto starts rubbing his thumb against the soft wool encasing Hart’s arm, “He’s not here – not the one I think you’re looking for.”

There’s a longer pause this time, but Hart’s face still could be carved out of stone before he repeats, “I want to see Captain Jack Harkness.”

Ianto sighs, and takes a gamble, because at least he doesn’t think it can hurt. “Can you understand me?” he asks in Jack’s native tongue.

Hart’s looking at him now, pupils blown wide as he clasps Ianto’s hands in his own. “You speak Boeshane! You must know Jack. Where is he? Is he all right?” He stumbles over his words a little, and his accent is terrible, but he’s communicating, which is impressive in and of itself.

“My Jack is fine,” Ianto says gently, and John tenses not at the possessive pronoun, but on the subtle tilt in dialect to mean one’s speaking about one’s lover. It’s not true yet, and some part of his mind wonders if it ever will be, but staking claim on something normally un-claimable sends a definite message.

“How is your Jack not mine?” his grammar really is horrible, but that he can speak it at all speaks of the rush of affection Jack has for him, even if it seems to be buried in anger. It would have taken Jack a lot of time and patience to teach a non native speaker even rudimentary Boeshane.

Ianto doesn’t answer at first, instead cradles John’s arm in one hand and uses the other to push his left sleeve up to his elbow. John allows him to trace the patch of smooth, pale skin where his vortex manipulator should be, the skin surrounding it being darkly tanned and roughened by whatever life he, and the Jack from his own time, were leading, “He is much, much older than you. You direct the river of the timestream with ease – you must know that tampering with it can’t end well.”

John manipulates their position, so now they are each clasping each other’s naked forearms. The skin on skin contact has caused the strain in the skin around his eyes to lessen, “Where is my Jack? He has been missing for nearly a linear month.”

Ianto shrugs, “I do not know. But he is not here, and you must leave.”

John’s eyes are wide and he begins to shake his head, but he stops, peers closer at Ianto and asks, “What’s your name?”

It’s breaking protocol, and Ianto doesn’t know why the time displaced man would care, but answers anyway, “Ianto Jones.”

John throws back his head and laughs, then pulls a startled Ianto forwards to place two quick, chaste kisses on both of his cheeks. “Powerful name.”

Ianto inclines his head, bewildered, “I’ve heard.”

“I will go,” John says, “if I may kiss you.”

Ianto blinks, honestly not having a clue what’s going on, but if it stops time from collapsing in on itself, “If you want.”

“No,” he cups Ianto’s face in his hands, his face just as young and unlined as his own, “You must give permission.”

He used the wrong verb, but Ianto gets it anyway, and says, “You have permission to kiss me, John Hart.”

Considering what little he knows of John, he’d expected a deep, hard kiss. Instead, it is simple firm pressure against his mouth and large warm hands on his face. “I will go now,” he says, solemn, when he pulls back.

After they’ve returned his vortex manipulator to him, and he kisses Ianto again on the cheek, Lillian turns to him and goes, “What the hell?”

Ianto says, “Fifty-first century,” like it explains everything, and Lillian will assume it will, even though it doesn’t. Ianto doesn’t say anything when he checks the timestream waves on the monitor later, finds that John Hart hasn’t gone very far at all. Or if he has, then he doubles back at some point. He can’t figure out when the man has jumped to, just that it’s more measureable in months and years than centuries and millennia. Until the other Time Agent shows up, there’s nothing anyone can do about it, so there’s no point worrying Lillian over it. Besides, Ianto feels like he’ll be the one to stumble across the man regardless.

 

When he gets to the Hub it’s Christmas Eve and late. He had a standing invitation from both Tegan and Griffin, but after spending the last two days catching up with the work that had accumulated over his impromptu trip to London, he just wants a quiet night in.

He’s heading to the archive to grab some cultural reading that he’s been itching to get done. There’s the low sound of someone moving about the Main Hub, and Ianto freezes. No one is supposed to be here – even Jack has plans to spend Christmas at Suzie’s place. He creeps forward, cursing himself for not being armed.

When he peeks around the corner, he relaxes. Owen is slumped in his desk with a half empty bottle of vodka on it, and he’s mumbling a naughty version of the Twelve Days of Christmas with his eyes closed. Ianto moves to straighten his vest, but he’s wearing jeans and a jumper so it doesn’t quite work out. “Dr. Harper?” he calls out softly, trying not to startle the man.

He opens his eyes lazily and the singing trails off, “Jones,” he greets, the slur on his words slight. “What are you doing here? ‘S Christmas.”

“There were some files I wanted to look over,” he explains, pausing by the doctor’s desk. “I could ask the same of you.”

“No one to spend it with,” he mumbles, “figured I’d get drunk instead.”

Ianto’s heart constricts in his chest, but he tries not to let it show, because Dr. Harper isn’t the type of man that responds well to pity. “Surely Toshiko would have enjoyed your company?”

Owen looks up then, and his sharp gaze is more sober than Ianto expected. “You should stay away from Tosh,” he declares, “been hurt a lot, she has. Don’t need you lying to her, lying to everybody.”

“Lying?” he repeats, his heart constricting for an entirely different reason.

“Ianto Jones, Head Archivist and Tactician, Torchwood One,” and they way he spits it out sounds like a challenge, “Tried to retcon us, but I’m a doctor, aren’t I? I know when things don’t taste just right, and retcon reacts funny in hot drinks.”

Ianto slides to his knees in front of Owen, looking up at that angry gaze, “Do they all know?” he asks quietly.

Owen shakes his head, “Did it once, do it twice. Don’t want to draw attention to it. ‘Sides,” he says, and his tone has turned grudging, “you’re all right, for a London man.”

Ianto knows he should be more worried about his cover being blown, but if the man’s kept it this quiet this long then it’s probably safe. “I’m a Cardiff man, now.”

“Nope!” Owen declares, “leader of Torchwood One, or thereabouts, aren’t you? Didn’t have no sick friend, I bet.”

“Not anymore,” he says, curving his hand over Owen’s knee.

He looks down at him, face softening, “You’re young for being what you are.”

Ianto makes a noise of agreement, “How about you come to my place, and you can sleep off that hangover, and I’ll explain?” He respected and liked the man before, despite the hard edges and biting comments, but now with the knowledge he’s kept Ianto’s secret for over two years, he trusts him too.

Owen frowns, “Have plans.”

“Getting drunk alone?” Ianto doesn’t bother gentling his voice, since sober or not he doesn’t think Owen would appreciate it.

The other man’s frown deepens before he asks, “Will you make coffee?”

Ianto laughs, and agrees, and that’s how he ends up with Owen tucked into his guest bedrooms sleeping off his hangover. Ianto takes his files and sinks into the chair of his living room, deciding he’ll phone Lillian in the morning.

 

“Happy Christmas!” she says when he does at seven, a slow hazy light filling the sky. Ianto repeats the sentiment back into his Bluetooth, his hands busy with polishing his counters. His house had become neglected recently, and considering the amount of money he’d dropped for it, there was no way that he was okay with that. “What’s up, Mr. Jones?”

“I’ve been caught in my web of lies,” he informs, throwing the flannel over his shoulder to grab the mop.

“Oh,” Lillian answers, “well.”

“Dr. Owen Harper apparently never forgot who I was, and he’s kept what he knows secret the whole time. I’m going to read him in.”

Lillian takes a moment to answer, “If you read him in, it won’t be long before Jack knows to.”

“Yes it will,” Ianto answers, “I’m reading Owen in, not Jack. I’m going to be sure to make that distinction clear to Owen when he wakes up.”

“Ianto,” Lillian says, her tone dipped low in despair, “you’ll regret this.”

“I either read him in, or I retcon him,” Ianto says clearly, “I’m not retoconning him. I like him.”

“You like Jack,” Lillian points out, and it’s true and if anyone, absolutely anyone, who’s not London’s top floor should be read in, it’d be the leader of Torchwood Three, regardless of his relationship with Ianto. But he knows where that’ll lead him, what path that leads to. You can’t change the past, and his life and death is Jack’s past, but if he’s very careful and a little lucky then he might be able to avoid it for a while.

“Unless you have a strong opposition to me reading Dr. Harper in, I’m doing it,” he says, and doesn’t say that he’ll do it anyway but he’s sure Lillian knows. “Send the paperwork my way, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, “Merry Christmas, Ianto.”

He softens, “You too, Lillian.” He hits the disconnects the call and wonders if this is the beginning of the end.

“So I’m not having my mind wiped?” Ianto turns to see Owen slumped against the wall of the entrance of his kitchen, his eyes slightly red and hair pressed flat and lain upwards at intervals. He’s holding himself tight, and his eyes are narrowed with wariness and suspicion, which to be fair is often how Owen looks.

“No,” Ianto answers, and remembers his promise of last night and moves toward the coffee machine, “I’d rather someone knows, and you’ve already proven yourself trustworthy.”

Owen nods, and moves beside him to take the aspirin he’s offering, and swallows them dry. He leans against the counter for a moment, before heaving himself to sit on its ledge. “So what’s being read in mean?”

“Not much, just that you’re on file as knowing my real status. Granted, it’s a file only myself and Lillian are cleared to read, but at least it’s on paper. You also get the right to ask questions.” The coffee machine makes a gurgling sound, marking its completion, and Ianto fixes cups for them both, handing Owen’s to him.

“Lillian, as in Director Kale? Is that the woman you had translating for Tosh two years ago?” Own takes a sip, and smiles.

“Yes. She was my direct superior for two weeks when I was first recruited, then I got my promotion once my psi rating had been confirmed. When we found out about the cybermen two years ago, she transferred to UNIT in order to get out of the line of fire, but came back to take on the role of Director.”

He has his back to Owen, sticking bread in the toaster, and because of this he doesn’t see the blood drain from his face, making his already pale skin take on an unhealthy pallor. “You knew? You knew they were coming, and you didn’t stop it!”

Ianto tenses and sets the timer before he turns around to face Owen’s accusing glare. “The attack that I helped defend that night was made by Jane Kingston, the head of Torchwood security, and Yvonne Hartman. They had been trying to access the Queen’s personal files, and later I hacked to see that the information they’d been looking for specifically. I had help from two very powerful people to help prepare in case it was ever put in to action, but as of then all we had was circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up. If I knew then what I knew now,” Ianto stops, takes a deep breath before continuing, “Well, hindsight is 20/20.”

The color has returned to Owen’s face, and he nods, says in a small voice, “All right, okay. So, where are you in Torchwood hierarchy, really? Because you were top floor, and I know you had a hand in rebuilding Torchwood One, because all the memos said it was the Head Archivist and Tactician, which is you even if the files used a different name, but now you’re here, in Cardiff, making coffee.”

Ianto hops on the counter perpendicular to Owen and places the plate of toast between them, taking one for himself after Owen does, “I’m still top floor – on paper, I’m a junior researcher, and on the super-special top secret paper, I’m top floor, and I did rebuild Torchwood One. As far as the rest of them are concerned, I left for a civilian life. But Lillian left my codes active, so we’re equals, in a way, and I help when I’m needed. I’m like the unofficial co-director of Torchwood.”

“But why are you here?” Owen insists, and Ianto resists leaning over to brush the crumbs from the front of his shirt – it’s not like they’ll be any less annoying when they’re on his newly cleaned floor.

“I like Torchwood, or I’m used to it at least. I don’t want to lead anymore though – so it was this or nothing. Torchwood Two and Four weren’t really an option if I wanted to keep my sanity, or what little of it I had left.”

Owen frowns, “I thought Torchwood Four went missing about twenty years ago when some alien accidentally tore a hole through reality?”

Some alien was actually a future incarnation of the Doctor, but apparently that wasn’t common knowledge. “We found it again a few years later,” he shrugs, “these things have a way of working themselves out.”

“Or not,” the older man says dryly, working on another piece of toast.

“Or not,” he agrees.

“So, what do you do at Christmas?”

Ianto blinks, “Uh, the one before I had drunken sex, then the one before that I was with you and then spent the day with my brother and his family. I don’t really have any set traditions. You?”

Owen doesn’t answer for a long moment, then says finally, “Ice skating.”

Ianto grins, hopping down from the counter. “Ice skating it is.”

 

When they go back the next day, the others notice the new camaraderie he and Owen share; Suzie makes a sex joke and Tosh smiles, looking both pleased and mildly jealous. Jack doesn’t comment on it at all until Ianto’s placing a new stack of files in front of him that require his signature a week later.

“You and Owen seemed to have worked out your differences,” he says, not looking up from messily scrawling his name across the various papers.

Ianto blinks, and wonders that the animosity had been that apparent, since the only real difference between Owen being a sort of complete jackass all the time, and Ianto being dryly sarcastic, is that they don’t really mean it. “It seems so, Sir.” Jack neither responds nor looks up, and Ianto mentally shrugs before saying, “If that’s all, Sir,” as he backs out of the office.

He doesn’t see Jack’s gaze following him, the deep question in his gaze that accompanies an even deeper lust.

Too bad – it’s not a bad way enter the new year, with Jack Harkness’s eyes on his ass.


	7. VII

Part VII

Ianto had warned Jack about Suzie. Owen had a submitted a report stating she was dealing with a large amount of stress that could lead to a break with reality. Fuck, even Tosh had expressed some vague concerns. But Jack motherfucking Harkness obviously knew better, didn’t he? Except for the part where Suzie’s quick wit and friendly smiles had hidden the crazed look in her eyes.

“You coming?” Owen asks, pulling on his jacket with Tosh hovering, quiet, by his side.

Ianto shakes his head, gaze skittering over Suzie’s workstation, always the messiest of all of them no matter how often he cleaned and organized it “Ms. Cooper will be joining us tomorrow – I should have a new workplace cleared for her.”

“Fuck Jack’s new eye candy,” Owen snorts, “one of our handful of friends just killed herself. You’re coming out to get sloshed with Tosh and me, doctor’s orders.” He tugs at the sleeve of Ianto’s suit jacket, eyes flinty and hard. It’s not the first time, and probably not the last, that Owen simultaneously brings forth the image of a pleading little boy and one of those prisoners who’ve been sentenced to life.

“I thought doctors weren’t supposed to prescribe alcohol as a remedy anymore?” he snarks, accepting the coat Tosh holds out to him and allowing the shorter man to lead him to the door.

“Torchwood,” Owen shrugs, and grins a grin that makes Tosh flinch and pull the arm looped around Ianto’s elbow that much tighter, “the accepted is thrown out the window, isn’t it Ianto?”

The younger man smiles at the subtle reminder of their first meeting that flies right over Tosh’s head. “Indeed,” he says, and he’s not sure if he meant for it to come out mocking or not, but Owen laughs anyway. The walk out into the Plass, Tosh sandwiched between them, where she feels the safest even though she knows that Ianto keeps enough secrets to build an empire on and Owen scares her, a little, sometimes.

Ianto uses his free hand to slip his Blackberry from his pocket, Owen talking too loud and not quite fast enough about the latest alien biology report he’s compiling for his enthusiasm to be entirely genuine.

Out to drinks. Will be in early to clean up work area for Ms. Cooper. – IJ

He’s not expecting a response, so when they’re all settling down in their latest string of bars that hasn’t felt the need to ban them yet, and his phone vibrates, he’s surprised to see Jack’s name flashing across the screen.

Thank you. Have one for me. – CJH

You could have one for you, Sir. – IJ

He types it back quick before Owen sets the tray with the first round on the table with more force than necessary. “Tequila and limes!” he announces, as if they don’t have eyes.

“You were serious about the sloshed bit,” Tosh says, eyeing the line of shot glasses Owen is setting up.

“We’re in mourning,” he says brusquely, “just right now, just for tonight, we mourn our friend Suzie Costello, and tomorrow we can curse her as a traitor and a villain.” He slides one shot in both of their directions, “It’s not tomorrow yet.”

Tosh and Ianto nod – they understand this, Ianto had gone through something similar after London, and he knows someone hurt Tosh at some point in the past. Ianto’s the first to knock back his shot and bite into his lime, “She was the only one who could speak decent Welsh when I first got here. She had started teaching me what little Italian she could remember from her grandmother.”

Tosh doesn’t need telling twice, takes her shot like a pro, and Ianto and Owen are both admiring the sight when she opens her eyes. Her cheeks flush at the attention, but she doesn’t react beyond that. “She taught me how to match make up with my skin tone – we had girls only night a couple of times, so we could pretend like we were normal for a while, even though we weren’t.”

Ianto wants to reach out touch her, comfort her, but knows that this isn’t the time – it might never be the time. He checks his phone quick while Owen quietly contemplates his shot glass.

I didn’t think I was invited. – CJH

Ianto takes a second to think of the riotous anger in Owen’s eyes, of the betrayal in Toshiko’s, and quickly types back.

Probably not. They aren’t very happy with you right now. – IJ

Owen takes his shot in a movement so sudden that both Ianto and Tosh jump at the motion. “I slept with her once – we were both drunk. I wasn’t very good, but she smiled at me the morning after and stole toast for the road.”

There’s this period of long, strained silence before Ianto rises to get his round of shots, grasping Owen quick on the shoulder as he passes, hoping Tosh doesn’t notice. That’s how they spend the rest of the night, sharing every memory they can dredge up about Suzie, knowing by tomorrow she’ll have been forgotten and replaced in every way that matters.

What about you, Mr. Jones? You did warn me. I didn’t listen. - CJH

Things become duller with the alcohol, but it doesn’t do what it used to do for him before the Battle of Canary Warf. Before, he could lose whole minutes in a drunken daze, the quicksilver of his thoughts slowing down to a sluggish pace where he’s sure he can think no better than the average man. He doesn’t have that anymore – if anything time slows down so he can keep better track of it, and while his body stumbles and becomes sloppy his mind seems to try to make up the difference. He can’t explain it, only knows that it frustrates and fascinates him.

There are only two people who both have the skill and his trust to go rummaging about in his head, to see if they could heal him. The Doctor, who he’s sure to meet again if he can just be patient enough, but is of no use to him now. Then there’s Jack, who doesn’t have the necessary psi rating, not really, but their minds have become so well acquainted, and Jack’s an old hand at such mental manipulation, that he could do well enough.

Only Ianto can’t let Jack into his mind, can’t tip the careful balance he has with the man of casual flirting, and appreciating glances, into something more just because his head isn’t screwed on tight. He wants Jack to want him on his own terms, or not at all.

The thought was a lot easier to hold and believe two years ago, when he’d first had it.

Love blinds. Besides, I don’t think I could hate you anymore than you hate yourself right now. – IJ

I didn’t love her like that. – CJH

You’re lying – IJ

How would you know? – CJH

i can see you – IJ 

Everyone sees me. – CJH

everyone looks at u – IJ

What’s the difference? – CJH

Ianto? – CJH 

You’re passed out, aren’t you? – CJH

Don’t die of alcohol poisoning. See you tomorrow. Or later today. - CJH

Ianto will find it months later, going through Jack’s phone because he’s chained to the bed and bored with Jack asleep beside him, flipping through random pictures and odd texts. It’s the only bit of information that’s locked within the entire phone, the one thing Jack has considered important enough to save.

i can see you – IJ

 

“Ianto! Ianto! You’re alarm’s been going off for like ten minutes.”

He slowly blinks his eyes open, and then shuts them, groaning while he wrestles the alarm off. He sighs in relief at the silence before cautiously prying his eyelids open to see Clara standing at the edge of his bed. She’s in running shorts and covered in sweat, her dark hair falling around her shoulders with a ponytail indent running a circle around her scalp. “No,” he moans, burying his face back into the pillows.

He hears Clara’s light giggle, and smothers his smile. He’s guessing it’s Saturday since she’s here, and it takes a moment for the rest of the events of yesterday to coming rushing forward, to give reason as to why he felt the need to get royally smashed the night before. Something must show in his posture because she presses her hand against the center of his back, “Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” he says, finally dragging himself into an upright position and rubbing his hand over his face. “I have to go in early. I’ll have coffee for when you get out of the shower,” he’s standing now, stretching his arms above his head as he arches his spine.

She nods, watching him with that same careful gaze that’s made her a twenty seven year old detective, and says, “Griffin misses you – you haven’t had a chance to go running in a while.”

He lowers his arms, relaxing and tensing all at once, “Work’s been busy.”

She hums noncommittally, still searching him for something that he hopes she doesn’t find. When she tilts her head like that, it reminds him of Rachel. Her son is almost in primary by now – he’ll have to remember to send something. 

“Think you can get off for dinner on Wednesday?” Ianto opens his mouth to refuse, but she adds quickly, “It’s not every day that a man turns twenty four.”

Ianto’s mouth closes with a snap, mentally calculating the day in his head to realize that Claris is right – Griffin’s birthday is this coming Wednesday. Which means Clara’s was about a month earlier, and he’d totally ignored it. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles, “It’s okay. I understand, we both do. We’re all busy – you with what you do, Griffin’s in his final year of med school, and I have my hands full with the promotion at work. But you have to make time for your friends, and we’re still friends, right?”

Griffin and Clara, who have managed to be normal without being boring, who had given him those blessed few months as a normal person, who stood by him still, and even if his relationships with his co-workers were forged in near-death and alien tech that didn’t mean he had to get rid of those that were simple affection and luck.

“Yes,” he says, “we’re still friends.”

Clara’s smile is blinding before she leaves, and Ianto thinks that she and Suzie might have been friends if they’d ever been allowed to meet.

 

The sun has just barely broken through the clouds when Ianto arrives at the Hub, in jeans and trainers with his suit in a bag – there’s a lot of grease at what was Suzie’s workstation. He knows in a backwards sort of way that Jack lives at the Hub, but he’s still startled to see him standing in front of Suzie’s desk in nothing more than boxers and a white t-shirt. Ianto has to take a moment to decisively not get a boner at the sight before working his way farther in to stand behind him.

“It’s cold in here,” he says, pressing his hand against Jack’s arm. He’s not surprised to find it still hot – he knows Jack has died recently, and in addition to not sleeping for days, his body temperature will stay those few degrees higher than normal for an equal amount of time. It had taken about two months for him to work out the pattern, and now he wonders at how Jack always seems to get himself killed, because he seems to do it as often out of the field as in it. He keeps track, in his journals, of the times he arrives in the morning to find the little signs of Jack’s insomnia, or brushes up against him only to find his skin too warm to the touch. It’s a disturbingly large number.

“She hated the cold,” Jack says, not otherwise reacting to the younger man’s presence. “She told me once that is was probably the worst part of working for Torchwood – she’d had to resign herself to being cold forever.”

Ianto thinks of the body he helped Jack place in the morgue after Owen’s hasty autopsy. The cause of death was pretty clear, but he’d found chemicals in the brain that had explained her obsessive behavior, what she had done. Ianto hadn’t been paying too much attention, too much of this not enough of that, but from the doctor’s biting report he’d made it clear if someone, anyone, had done something, it could have been taken care of. Suzie and the others are dead because of their failure, and Ianto knows, knows, Jack is taking it all on himself.

“Why Gwen?” Ianto asks, trailing his hand down so he can clasp his hand in Jack’s. He’d like to say it’s romantic, but it’s not. He knows simple touches comfort Jack, and while the others are content to receive Jack’s tactile affection, they’re wary of returning it. On the Boeshane Peninsula, near strangers sat in each other’s laps. Ianto had learned from the Jack of the future that the feeling of isolation would never be something he’d grow totally used to.

Jack squeezes back, and his smile becomes that much less fixed, “She looks like she’ll fit in well.”

Ianto thinks back to skimming across the Welshwoman’s mind, and while he has to agree that her mind does indicate strength, as does that she’s still alive, it is also almost childlike in its make-up, and he can’t help but think that only the abnormal, fucked up, or both, kind of people are the ones that go into Torchwood, and she is neither. “We’ll ruin her.”

Jack’s grasp on his hand becomes unbearably tight for a moment, “Or she’ll save us.”

Ianto’s grip is equally firm for a moment, the echo of Jack’s conversation with Yvonne floating across his mind. The same thing, the exact same thing had been said about him once, but he hadn’t been able to save anyone at all. He hadn’t been able to save Lisa, his team, all the people he’d worked with and faced hell with for years are gone, and if they weren’t dead because of him, then they weren’t alive because of him either. “I wasn’t aware we needed saving, Sir.”

“All right,” Jack snorts, “maybe it’s just me.”

Ianto closes his eyes, just for a moment, and knows jealousy has no place in any sort of relationship with Jack, not when he’s healthy and not psychically broken and mentally co-dependant. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to say that he could save Jack, even if he couldn’t really. His mind is so messed up from the affects of Canary Wharf that he can barely keep himself in the here and now, never mind being of any use to Jack. Besides, this isn’t healthy. He’s too obsessed with the man – he needs a goddamn hobby. “Coffee, Sir?”

He can practically feel Jack’s confusion, but the older man nods his assent. “Did you finish the budget for the next year?”

Ianto nods, “I’ve sent the usual overview package to the Queen. I signed it all in your name – did you want to look it over?” Technically, Ianto shouldn’t have his eyes anywhere near any of those documents, but Jack had quickly picked up at Ianto’s skill with dealing with the bureaucratic nonsense that kept Torchwood running. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t have the clearance anyway.

“Nah,” Jack’s gaze drifts back to the alien tech Suzie had been working on, before she died. “You know what you’re doing.”

As if, Ianto thinks as walks to the kitchen.

 

Gwen’s been wearing a gun at her hip for three days the first time Myfanwy sees fit to fly up from the lower bowels of the Hub to say hello. Ianto’s just about to her offer her a cup of coffee when he feels the light breeze of the dinosaur flying overhead and Gwen shouts, pulling her gun from her holster.

Ianto doesn’t think, he’s not a field agent but that doesn’t mean he’s not trained for it. He drops the tray of coffee and melds his body against Gwen’s, jerking her arm to the left in just enough time that the bullet harmlessly ricochets about the ceiling for a moment before falling to the ground. His other arms is pressed against her throat, but that’s just instinct and as soon as Myfanwy screeches her displeasure and flies away he lets her go, moving a neat two steps away to give Gwen her space. Her gun is still clasped in his hand.

Gwen’s not moving, Tosh and Jack are blatantly staring, and Owen is making a valiant effort not to smirk. He coughs and sets the gun on Tosh’s desk, which is closest. “Sorry about the scare,” he says evenly, “I should have warned you – Torchwood comes with a pet pteranodon. Please refrain from shooting it.”

Gwen finally turns to face him, and says, “I thought you were the bloody janitor!”

She can have no idea how closely the cuts, because he is nothing, nothing, like his abusive bastard of a father. At this moment he wants to fling his position in her face, shout and scream like a child that she doesn’t have a clue what she’s saying. Instead he breathes deep through his nose and says, “Welcome to Torchwood, Ms. Cooper. Even the janitors know how handle themselves.” Unlike you remains unspoken, but heard.

No one else says anything, and he glances dispassionately at the mess of broken glass and spilled coffee on the floor, “I’ll just clean that up, shall I?” He piles the pieces of glass onto the tray and walks back to the kitchen, doing his best to keep his gait even.

He’s dumped the glass in the trash, and is moving to make more coffee when he hears someone enter the kitchen. He turns his head just enough to see that it’s Jack, “I’ll take care of the spill in a moment, Sir. I’m just setting up the next batch of caffeine.”

Jack moves up beside him and settles a hand on the center of his back. It causes Ianto to tense up even more before he relaxes into the touch. Jack’s skin still holds a hint of that unnatural heat from his most recent death. “You’re not a janitor.”

“Of course not,” Ianto says, “I wear a suit.”

Jack’s hand curls around his shoulder so he can turn Ianto to face him, and there’s a concern and kindness in his face that Ianto hasn’t seen directed at him since the first time they’d met. “I didn’t hire you so you could clean up after us – if I remember correctly, it was you who started it. I appreciate it, it certainly makes things run that much more smoothly, but it’s hardly in your job description.”

Ianto sighs and rubs the back of his neck, “It’s not as if I mind. I like taking care of my team, it’s just that-” he cuts himself off as Jack makes a strangled sound in the back his throat, “Sir?”

“Your team?” Jack asks, and Ianto can feel himself flush. Jack’s looking at him in a way that’s almost eager.

“My team,” Ianto confirms, “it’s what you all are, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the older man says, and Ianto likes the way his voice, normally so loud and attention grabbing, has softened. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Ianto has to pull his gaze from staring into Jack’s bright blue eyes before he can think properly, “I don’t mind. I like that you take me for granted sometimes even – it means you find me dependable. So I’m the butler,” he shrugs, “that’s fine. It’s just that’s not all I am.”

“Our archivist and researcher,” Jack murmurs, and Ianto almost thinks for a moment that when he says our, he means my. “You are more than our caretaker, Mr. Jones. You’re vital – it’s a good think that you strong-armed me into giving you a job, because I don’t know how we’d survive without you now.”

Ianto can’t breathe for a moment, and he thinks Jack is going to kiss him except that’s when Tosh walks in, “I cleaned up the – Oh!” Ianto steps neatly away from Jack, swallowing his disappointment to smile at Tosh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just go.”

Ianto grabs her arm, pulling her further into the kitchen and taking the coffee stained cloth from her hand and throwing it in the sink. “Nothing to interrupt. Thank you, for taking care of the spill. How is Ms. Cooper?”

Tosh isn’t looking at him when she winces, “She’s fine – Owen laid into her a bit for the janitor comment. Apparently he’s the only one that gets to abuse you.”

Her smile is hesitant, and he returns it with one wide enough that she relaxes a little. “Well, I suppose he has to be good for something, doesn’t he?” He hands her a fresh mug of coffee before taking Gwen and Owen’s in either hand, “I’ll just take these out, shall I?”

He doesn’t look back, but he’s not as far away as they must think he is when they start talking, and he pauses. Their voices are faint, but he can hear them anyway.

“You okay, Jack?”

“Am I doing something wrong?” There’s a hint of frustration in his voice, and Ianto nearly drop the mugs for a second time.

“He’s young.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Flirting does seem to be your default setting – maybe he’s just not taking you seriously.”

“We’re not flirting,” there’s definitely more than a hint of frustration now, “we’re connecting. Or I thought we were.”

Ianto leans up against the wall and closes his eyes, because he is so, so not ready to hear this. He’s not strong enough to walk away either though, so.

“Ianto’s a bit of a traditionalist,” Tosh says, and Ianto crinkles his brow, because what does she mean by that?

“So he’s not into homosexuality?”

“No, I’m just saying. You’re his boss, and even if he’s not looking for a relationship and you’re on the same page, it breaks a few rules. He is from London.”

Ianto takes a deep breath before continuing his walk down to the central Hub after a few beats of silence. So Jack wants to fuck him – that wasn’t exactly news, Jack wants to fuck pretty much everyone. The actually surprising part is he wants to fuck Ianto because he likes him – not true love, or any sort of bullshit like that, but more than a one night stand at least. Maybe.

Ianto’s not really sure if that makes things less or more complicated. More, likely, considering his luck.

 

After Gwen awkwardly apologizes, things even out between them. He likes her, she’s kind and smart if terribly naïve, and every day in Torchwood she becomes less and less of the latter. The only real complaint he has against her is the magnetic, instant connection she and Jack seem to share. He can’t exactly blame her for that – that’s all his own issue.

Owen shows up late at his house one night, and it’s raining as it often is. Ianto’s cooking himself dinner – pasta, and at eleven at night – when he comes trudging through the front door, tracking mud into his nice clean house and not for the first time Ianto questions the wisdom of giving the older man a key.

“I’m an idiot, and I know your secret,” he announces as he plops down at the little table set up in his kitchen.

Ianto silently adds another serving of pasta to the pot and hopes he has enough sauce for two. “Yes you are, and yes you do. Take off your shoes at least. Any other obvious things you’d like to point out?”

He can practically feel Owen’s glare burning a whole into the back of his head before he declares, “I kissed Gwen, and you’ve slept with Jack before you came to Cardiff.”

Ianto’s glad he wasn’t eating or drinking anything just then, because he would have choked. “What?!”

He staring at Owen, mouth agape, and the other man’s mouth is pressed into a hard line as he shrugs. “It was an accident. Kind of. Anyway, apparently when Jack went to London five years ago, he lost a bunch of memories. He didn’t tell us about it because he remembers that it was necessary, and didn’t see the point of worrying us over it.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” he says evenly, turning off the stove and sticking the strainer in the sink.

“He only lost parts of his memories,” Owen says, “and I only know one person who has access to retcon that can do that.”

Ianto adds the sauce – Jenny had made it from scratch and sent over a jar last week. He really needs to visit them proper soon. “Have you told him?”

Owen scoffs, “Because I’m big on spilling your secrets. I’ve kept so many for this long, what’s one more?”

Ianto breathes out and separates the pasta into two plates, handing one to Owen with a fork set on the edge before sitting across from him. “Thanks.”

Owen shrugs, digging in. “No problem.”

The sauce is really very good – he’ll phone Jenny tomorrow and tell her, “How did you find out about this anyway? Did you get Jack drunk?”

Owen shakes his head as swallows, “Nah, Tosh picked up on it while she was wearing the weird psychic necklace – apparently Jack thinks about it a lot, to the point of obsession even. We were talking about it yesterday. Speaking of,” Owen points his fork at Ianto dramatically, and the younger man twitches as sauce splatters across the table, “you should be careful. Apparently when she tried to pick up on what you were thinking, all she got was high pitched static which gave her a headache. I convinced her to let it go, but all it will take is her slipping the information to Jack for him to figure out that your psi rating is way, way higher than a junior researcher’s should be.”

Ianto shudders, “I’ll keep that in mind.” It’s just another way to show how his mind is all fucked up – had it been like it had before Canary Warf, she wouldn’t have heard anything at all. “So,” he continues, “Gwen?”

Owen smirks, and Ianto laughs in spite of himself. Owen is, in a lot of ways, just as fucked up and broken as ever, but now he’s fucked up and broken alongside Ianto. He walks a bit easier than he did a year ago, and he almost wants to introduce him to Griffin – they’d get along like a house on fire between the whole doctor thing and the snark. Too bad it would breaks about a million different rules.

Well, he might do it anyway. What’s the fun in being the man who makes the rules if he can’t break them every once in awhile?

 

“You want to borrow what?”

Ianto sighs, “I’m pretty sure you’re not using it. What’s the big deal?”

“Dad tried to take us camping when you were ten. You hitchhiked home and then broke into the house,” Tegan says, inhaling the cup of coffee Ianto had brought him as bribery as they sprawl about his living room.

“That was painful,” Ianto recalls, and Tegan’s eyes darken. He winces, knowing that it’s never the most comfortable of things to bring up – but ever since Gwen’s comments a few weeks before he finds himself thinking of a lot of things he’d rather not. “Anyway, do you mind? Griffin and Clara are taking care of the house while I’m gone, so that’s covered, but if you don’t mind sparing the tent and sleeping bag it’d be useful.”

“I don’t mind,” Tegan shrugs, “but what on earth kind of assignment involves dragging you camping?”

“One I can’t flirt my way out of, apparently,” Ianto answers darkly. He’s still confused about what the fuck he’s motherfucing going to do about Jack to the point that he’s even stopped reacting to Jack’s casual flirting half the time. He’s not sure if that’s effective or not, since if anything Jack has seen fit to take it as some sort of challenge.

Tegan raises an eyebrow, “Mixing business with pleasure, are we?”

Ianto’s look in return is half wretched and half annoyance, “Oh God, I don’t even know. Although if I do, does that make my love life classified?”

Tegan grins and it’s easier to talk to him about this than it’s ever been. Torchwood One had broken him, and even if Torchwood Three doesn’t seem to be doing him a whole lot of good, then it certainly isn’t making him any worse. Sadly, Ianto thinks that’s all Tegan’s really asking for. “You better hope so. Jenny keeps on badgering me to badger you into settling down.”

“I’m twenty-four!” Ianto answers, neatly avoiding that he’ll be shocked if he makes it to thirty, and there’ll be no settling down in his future. He spoils his nieces and nephews – even Mica and David, whom he almost never sees because he can’t stand how they’re being raised, have tidy college funds set up, because he wants them to at least have the option of getting out – in part because he knows he’ll never have children of his own. He doesn’t think he’d make a very good father anyway, but he gets a bit melancholy when he thinks about how he’ll never get the chance to find out.

“I was twenty two when I married Jenny!” Tegan grins, and it’s all a joke because Ianto’s explained to him that he won’t be setting down any point soon – it’s the truth, really, just not all of it.

Ianto raises an eyebrow and drains the last of his coffee. “So, can I steal those camping supplies or what?”

“Of course,” Tegan stands, gesturing for Ianto to follow him, “not that it matters, but for how long will you be gone?”

Ianto shrugs, “Classified.”

Tegan tenses for a moment before letting it go, “Call me when you get back?”

Ianto softens, “Of course.”

Well, just because things were easier didn’t mean they were easy.

 

“Marry me,” Jack says immediately when Ianto meets the others outside the Hub the following morning.

He blinks, “Sir?” Jack’s looking him over even more thoroughly than usual. He is grateful that he’s sharing a tent with Owen as opposed to Jack.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just continues undressing Ianto with his eyes while the Welshman shifts his weight from side to side. Gwen finally takes pity on him and stops giggling long enough to say, “It’s the jeans, Ianto.”

He blinks, looking down at himself almost automatically. “We’re going camping. Suits didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Thank the stars for that,” Jack says, much too loud, and Ianto coughs.

“I thought you liked the suits, Sir.”

Jack blinks rapidly before finally focusing in on his face and grinning, “I do! I really, really do. I also happen to like you in jeans, in pajamas, in running shorts,” Jack’s eyes begin to glaze a little, “I really did like the sight you made in those shorts. I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier at a weevil for existing.”

The other three haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, so Ianto just says tiredly, “Don’t ask. Please.”

Ianto drives, mostly because it gives him something to do with his hands. He shares Tosh’s concerns about the food, and hopes they won’t be here long enough for what they packed to not be enough. When they get to the site and unload everything, Ianto glares at the tents, hands on his hips.

“All right there, Ianto?” Owen calls, because he’s a bastard.

“Shut up,” he replies, “You’re doing this, by the way.”

“Oi!” he protests, “I’m a doctor! Besides, didn’t you grow up playing in the mountains? It’s what you said when we first met you.” What he means is the second time, but Owen’s good at playing this game.

“I never stayed,” Ianto says. The girls have already finished putting up their own tent, as has Jack. Ianto scowls and throws the poles at Owen, “I’m going to go get some firewood – have this up by the time I come back.”

Owen yells something uncomplimentary back, but he must find Ianto’s helplessness funny enough to actually be productive for once, because when he comes back there’s a third tent in-between Jack’s in the girls.

 

Bloody motherfucking hell. If he survives this, he’ll have to fuck Jack, or something. God, what if this is how it ends? Him and Tosh butchered to pieces, with Jack coming in just enough time for Ianto to choke out his feelings and die in his arms. Well, at the very least imminent death has allowed him to sort out what those feelings are.

Tosh is fucking terrified, and granted so is he, but after facing Cybermen, cannibals seem like a bit of a letdown. “On three,” he says evenly, and she clearly has no idea what he means, especially as he doesn’t bother to count to three before head-butting Evan with maniacal grin. “Run, get Jack!” he orders, and she doesn’t even hesitate, reacting the timbre in his voice that demands both immediate action and respect – he hasn’t used in years.

Helen tries to go after her, but Ianto grasps her by the ends of her short blond hair and tugs her harshly back, so she stumbles to the ground. Evan has recovered from the blow, and is running to the door when Ianto gets in his way, using his stature as a six foot tall Welshman to act as barrier, letting out a low grown when the force of it seems to ignite every other bruised and tenderized part of him. He has just enough time to elbow the man hard enough in the face that he’s probably broken his nose when a sharp, sudden pain in the back of his head alerts him to the fact that he probably should have paid more attention to Helen.

Tosh better have gotten away, he thinks fiercely before succumbing to the all over pain.

 

When he wakes up, he’s tied to the chair and he’s hurting enough to know that he’s been seriously beaten while unconscious, going back to the familiar routine of tensing the muscles of his body, one at a time from the toes on upward, to see what is the most damaged. The answer of ‘a lot’ may not be a surprise, but it’s not exactly pleasant. He opens his eyes slowly, unaware if he’s being watched.

He is, Evan and Helen both standing in front of him. It’s pointless to pretend to still be unconscious now, and he slowly raises his head and straightens his spine, ignoring the sharp burn and pull on his muscles this causes. If there was something every Torchwood One personnel was taught, from the mailroom all the way up to Director, it’s to never show weakness. It was the equivalent to signing your own death certificate. It’s not as if it really matters at this point anyway – he’s alone, Tosh got away, probably, and is with Jack like the others. If they’re with Jack then they’re safe. As long as the rest of his team is safe, he can take whatever happens to him.

The cannibals let the silence stretch out uncomfortably long, obviously waiting for Ianto to attempt to bargain, plead, or something as equally as ridiculous as that. He refuses to give them that satisfaction. As much as his head is messed up, and being knocked out certainly hadn’t helped anything, the stopwatch in his mind ticks on as always, precise as ever. It takes exactly three minutes and forty seven seconds for Evan to get impatient and snap, “I bet you’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

Ianto bites back a smile and doesn’t say anything at all.

“The girl took care of herself,” he continues, “lots of muscle, lots of good meat you’ve lost us with your little stunt. Granted, the foreign stuff doesn’t have quite the right flavor, especially the yellow ones, but we would have made do.” Ianto’s not holding back a smile anymore, wants to hurt the man for his strange, backwards insult to his teammate.

“You’re a good Welshboy, though, aren’t you?” he says, and Ianto doesn’t know how to even feel about the accompanying cackle, “You’re just right, all strong and tall and fit. You’ll make a lovely Sunday supper.”

There’s another lull into silence, and this time it’s Ianto who breaks it. “Is there are reason you’re monologue-ing at me, since I’ll be dead soon, or do you sweet talk all your dinners before roasting?” Talking about himself, about the other victims, this way makes his stomach flip over uncomfortably, but it’s worth it to see the twisted anger on the other man’s face.

“Well if you’re so eager,” he snarls, moving forward to press the blade against Ianto’s throat, pressing it down slow. Ianto realizes that Evan is going to drag this out, going to make him suffer, and he wants to close his eyes against it, but he won’t allow his final act to be that of a coward.

He can already feel a thin stream of blood falling from his neck when the wall comes crashing down, a tractor with his team riding on it, and he throws his head back and laughs, even though it presses the blade in that little bit deeper. It’s worth it.

He’s not paying too much attention to what happens after that, closing his eyes now that it’s an act of relief and not one of cowardice. He only really becomes aware when Owen grips his shoulders, shaking him with the little movement he can pull from him, “Ianto! Ianto, mate, you all right?”

Ianto opens his eyes, and Owen’s close, hands pressed against his neck lightly enough that he can still breath but with enough pressure to staunch the slight bleeding. He realizes Tosh is behind him, undoing his restraints when the sudden blood flow to his hands stings enough that he hisses in through his teeth. “Gwen?” he croaks, bringing his arms up to clumsily grasp at Owen.

“She’s fine,” Owen answers, “or she will be at any rate; I’m more worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” he says, the adrenaline high receding just enough that he can focus on what’s going on around him. He looks over Owen’s shoulder and pushes him out of the way, the movement sudden enough that it surprises the other man into letting him, since Ianto’s in no way stronger than the doctor now.

“Jack!” he calls, and the other man doesn’t twitch from his position of holding his gun to Evan’s head. Ianto vaguely notices that Helen’s body is fallen to the side, and he hopes that she’s just knocked out rather than dead. He puts one hand on the older man’s shoulder and presses the other one atop his forearms, not really trying to push the barrel of the gun from the man’s face, but putting enough pressure there that Jack knows that’s what he wants.

His face could be carved from stone, and there’s an ugly look in his eyes in the set of his mouth. Ianto’s always known that Jack has protective instincts a mile wide – it’s what made Suzie’s death hurt so much – but he can’t allow Jack to do this. Even if this man deserves it, Jack doesn’t.

“Jack,” he repeats, leaning forward so his hot breath ghosts across his ear, wondering if the other man is even aware that he’s there right now. “Please, don’t do it.”

Jack doesn’t react, doesn’t move an inch, and Ianto’s too focused to pay attention to what Owen and Tosh are doing right now, but if he wasn’t he’d see them backed up, torn from wanting to be close to Ianto and away from Jack, who is frankly terrifying like this.

“Please,” he repeats, shifting forward to place a light, warm kiss against his neck. Jack moves just slightly, moving his head a mere centimeter in Ianto’s direction before snapping it back to stare at Evan. He must be a least slightly intelligent, seeing as he hasn’t said a word since a gun was pointed in his face. Ianto repeats the action, pushing himself flush against the side of Jack’s body and kissing quickly along his jaw line. Jack shudders, and the gun drops a few centimeters down.

Ianto presses his advantage, presses his lips against Jack’s pulse point, the same area where his own wound lay, and simply lets himself feel the beats of Jack’s heart through his lips. He pushes the gun down the rest of the way, tangling his hands with Jack’s so as to extract the gun from his grip, and Jack lets him. He places one more butterfly kiss against Jack’s neck before twisting the gun and pulling himself away from Jack, using the butt of the weapon to smack against Evan’s head hard enough for him to crumple to the floor.

He takes a deep breath and removes the magazine before tossing the weapon aside. He just barely has enough time to turn back to Jack when the man pulls him into a crushing embrace, tight enough that it’s a struggle not to cry out. He runs his hands up and down Jack’s back, feels Jack’s cheek pressed against his own as the man trembles against him, from adrenaline, fear, or relief he can’t say.

He can feel Jack saying something, moving his lips and breathing out, but never actually speaking. It takes him a moment to figure out it’s his name. “Jack?” he says, soft, his grip on the other man momentarily tightening.

Just as sudden as it began, Jack’s pushing away, although he does thrust his hands into Ianto’s, threading their fingers together. Ianto doesn’t even want to think about the self restraint he’s using to not kiss him now – he’s broadcasting it so loudly that, attuned to Jack’s mind like he is, even with his shield up he can hear it. “Why?”

Ianto’s cocks an eyebrow, “Sir?” The beating of his heart is almost back to normal, and the fear and anger are retreating enough for pain and weariness to set in.

“Why didn’t you let me kill him? I’ve killed before,” he throws out, like a challenge, and Ianto almost wants to laugh, because if there’s something he doesn’t think he’s ever doubted about Jack it’s is that he’s a good man, and a few murders aren’t really going to change that. That would probably be a serious problem to most psychiatrists, but Ianto doesn’t much care.

“And you will again,” he agrees, gentle with Jack even if he’s been the one hurt, because this is important, “but not today.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, and for once Ianto can’t describe the look on his face. He thinks Jack might just give in and kiss him when Owen clears his throat, breaking the moment so Jack lets go of Ianto’s hands, and they both turn to face them. Both Owen and Tosh are looking at Jack warily, and he hunches his shoulders in response. Owen’s gaze quickly flickers to Ianto’s, who smiles and nods, and hopes that says enough.

“Okay then,” the doctor says, moving to Ianto, although the quick pat against Jack’s chest as he passes makes the older man almost sag with relief. “Sorry, but I think Ianto’s going to crash any moment now, and I think he has quite enough bruises without tumbling to the floor.”

Ianto typically hates to agree with Owen on anything out of principal, but every bit of him feels sore and heavy, and he’s already had to jerk his eyes open twice since he started speaking. Jack seems to agree, because he sweeps Ianto into his arms, quite literally, bridal style. The shock of it is enough for Ianto to jerk himself into total awareness.

“Jack!” he hisses, “put me down! God, we’re nearly the same height and weight, this can’t be comfortable for you.”

Jack bends his head to press his forehead against the top of Ianto’s head and lets out a laugh that’s more like a sob, and Ianto’s aware he’s said something wrong but can’t puzzle out what. “Let me,” Jack murmurs.

“What about Evan and Helen?” he asks, and by the tight grip, he’s once again said the wrong thing, but he still doesn’t know what. It’s possibly due to his once again drooping eyelids.

“The human police are here, it’s a human problem, let them take care of it. I’ll read the report later,” Jack says, and that’s the last thing Ianto expected, because Jack likes to finish the things he starts, especially if those things have hurt his team, and, judging from the amount of heat Jack’s body is generating right now, killed him. “Let me,” he repeats like a plea, and Ianto is very tired and sore, and Jack is strong and warm and Jack so he nods off with his head against his blue wool clad shoulder, and figures that’s answer enough.

 

When he wakes up again, he’s in his own bed. The first thing he’s really aware of is that everything, absolutely everything, hurts. The second is that Tosh is sitting in the chair by his bedside, flipping through a book. “Oh,” she says, looking up, and he must have made some sort of noise, “you’re awake.”

Tosh looks nervous, her face pinched. “Are you all right?” he says, biting back a groan as he pushes himself into an upright position. It’s then that he notices he’s in pajama bottoms and a black long sleeve shirt. He wonders if it was Jack or Owen who undressed him – he’s not sure which one he’d prefer.

“Of course!” she looks scandalized.

He blinks, “Is everyone else?”

“Yes!” she says, and she seems to be shifting from nervous to angry, which Ianto thinks is unfair, because he’s been awake for all of two minutes, and couldn’t have done anything too bad.

“Oh,” he scrubs a hand through his hair, and decides he needs a shower, like, yesterday. “What’s wrong then?”

“You!” she glares, and she’s really cute when she’s irritated, but he’s pretty sure now’s not the time to tell her that.

“What did I do?” he demands, throwing off the blanket so he can slowly bend in half to grasp at his toes, stretching all the muscles that don’t want to be stretched, but knowing that if he doesn’t do it now then he’ll regret it later.

“You were going to let them kill you!” she’s let the book fall to the ground, and if she leaves it in that position the spine is going to get damaged.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, contemplating if he’ll fall down if he tries to walk, “Well, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the experience.”

He pushes himself up and sways. Tosh curses, and if he could keep the world right side up he’d raise an eyebrow at that, but as it is she stands too, throwing his arm over her shoulder so he can steady himself. “You should be resting!”

He takes a deep breath, and the initial burst of pain recedes after a moment. “If I don’t move, I’ll just stiffen up more. Besides, I really need a shower.”

Tosh is gaping at him, and he gently steps away from her, breathing out when he finds he can move under his own power now. “Give me twenty minutes?” She nods, a little jerkily, and he leans forward to kiss her on the cheek, “Thank you for staying with me.”

When he walks out he feels just that much more human, the hot water having loosened all the little stiff parts of him. He’s clad in grey trousers and an unbuttoned lilac dress shirt, which he almost regrets when he walks into his kitchen to find the whole team assembled there. He doesn’t wear undershirts – they ruin the line of the shirt – but that means they can all see the bruises littering his chest, moving down his trousers and winding up his neck and face. All four of them look stricken, even Owen, who must have looked him over earlier.

He coughs, buttoning up the shirt quickly to hide the worst of it. “Funny,” he says, and their eyes all jerk to his face guiltily, “I meant to go to my kitchen, but I must have gotten lost on the way and ended up at the Hub. My apologies.”

Owen snorts and grins, “You’ve been out for over a day, pretty boy. I’m in serious caffeine withdrawal.”

The girls look scandalized, but Ianto laughs, moving past them to the coffee machine, “However did you survive? I’m truly impressed with your endurance.”

Once he’s done, he turns to Gwen, whom he really does like for her softness, for the way she looks at him now with concern as opposed to pity. “How are you Gwen?” He sees the way she’s holding herself.

She flounders for a moment before saying, “Tis merely a flesh wound.”

Ianto decides he likes her even more then, and asks, “Toast?”

Jack hasn’t said anything, just keeps following him with his eyes.

“Is that what you live on?” Owen demands, “Unless you’re eating at the Hub, all I’ve ever seen you have is coffee and toast.”

“That’s a lie,” Ianto says, getting out the mugs, “You’ve invited yourself to dinner enough times.”

“Pasta and cheese toasties every time,” Owen retorts, “a man cannot live on carbs and caffeine alone.”

“I think that’s a challenge,” Ianto muses, and his body has loosened to the point that everything is a just a dull ache, like he pushed himself too hard and too far when working out the day before.

He hands out the coffee, and they all take it, still watching him too carefully. On one hand, he want to tell them to knock it off, all this staring in making him uncomfortable. On the other, he selfishly likes that they care, that they’re here, even though it’s really unnecessary. He gets to Jack last, silently holding the mug out to the man. He’s not really sure where the two of them stand right now.

Jack doesn’t move, looks at Ianto all over, but must be satisfied with what he finds, because he accepts the mug. Ianto’s about to walk away when Jack uses his free hand to snatch at Ianto’s hand, bringing it to his mouth so he can leave soft, warm kisses against Ianto’s bruised knuckles. Ianto feels his breath catch in his throat for a moment, and Jack twists his hand so that he can lay another kiss to the bottom of Ianto’s palm. It’s eerily reminiscent of what he did to the Jack of the future. “All right?” Jack ask, his voice a low, throaty rumble.

Ianto can’t speak, just nods, waiting for Jack to release him. He does but only because his wrist strap starts beeping. Ianto knows that sound, and so he smirks as Jack begins to curse. Ianto steps back, calling over his shoulder, “Owen, you know where the to-go cups are. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You’re not coming in to work today!” Jack calls up, scanning the information that the Rift monitor has sent him.

Ianto turns, repeating, “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Jack scowls, and the other three members of the team fails to hide their amusement, but five minutes later when he walks out the door, just as put together as always, Gwen is waiting for him, leaning against his car and swinging his car keys around her finger with an eager look in her eyes.

He pauses, adjusting his shirt cuffs before taking the mug of coffee she must have prepared for him. He takes a cautious sip, and she’s gotten the cream to sugar to coffee ratio perfect. “You can drive,” he says, taking a deeper sip, and she squeals before tugging on his free hand, just as eager as he is, even hurt, to go do what it is that they do.

God, does he love these people.

 

“Don’t panic,” Ianto instructs into his phone, turning down a familiar road.

There a beat of silence before, “I’m panicking.”

Ianto laughs, but it’s strained, so it doesn’t actually help anything, “Jenny and the kids aren’t home, right?”

“Right,” Tegan says, “why are you asking that?”

“I don’t want them to panic.”

“About what, exactly?” he asks.

“I got a little banged up during my camping trip,” he admits, pulling into his brother’s driveway. “I promise you it looks worse than if feels.”

“Ianto,” Tegan says, his voice low with warning.

Ianto sighs, “I’m here to return your things, but you mustn’t panic or overreact.”

“Fine,” Tegan says, short, and Ianto blinks, turning off the car and unbuckling his seatbelt.

“One moment,” he says before hanging up. He opens his trunk to sling the two bags over his shoulder, glad that the motion barely twinges anymore. He doesn’t bother knocking, just opens his brother’s door and walks to the living room, dropping the bags to the ground and calling out, “Tegan!”

His brother rounds the corner, sees him, and freezes. “What the fuck?”

Ianto grimaces, “Really, it’s not that bad. Griffin and Clara threw a fit when they saw me, but even Griffin admitted it was mostly superficial, making it ugly but not dangerous.”

Tegan stalks forward, cupping Ianto’s jaw in his palm, tilting his face this way and that to get a better look at the fading yellow and green bruises, gasps in sharp when he sees the healing knife wound on his neck. “Tell me,” he says, voice shaky, “that you got this doing that bloody ridiculous job of yours.”

Ianto’s pretty sure his eyebrows hit his hairline, “Excuse me?”

Tegan won’t look him in the eye, “Tell me you got this fighting whoever it is that you fight, in the line of duty or whatever you call it.”

“Of course,” Ianto says, confused, “where else would I get it?”

Tegan swallows before answering, “From mixing business with pleasure.”

It takes Ianto a second to understand what his brother is getting at, and when he does his eyes widen in disbelief, “Bloody hell, no! Not ever, not in a million years, he wouldn’t hurt me unless he needed to.”

The blood drains from Tegan’s face, and Ianto realizes that came out all wrong, completely and totally wrong. “I mean if it was me or a civilian,” he corrects hastily, “if hurting me stopped other people from getting hurt, then he’d do it, but I’d do the same, so that’s all right. He wouldn’t hurt me just because he could, just because I angered him.”

“If this man,” Tegan says, husky, “started hurting you, just because he could, because you angered him, would you leave?”

Ianto bites his lip, because since he lies to his brother about so much, he tells the truth when he can – Tegan knows when he’s lying anyway. His silence must be answer enough, because Tegan’s face hardens and he steps away from Ianto, turning from him. “He wouldn’t,” Ianto says instead.

“If he did, would you tell me?” Tegan says, and just because Ianto took abuse from someone he loved before doesn’t mean he’ll do it again, doesn’t mean he hasn’t learned from his mistakes.

“If you asked,” Ianto says, and that’s the truth at least. It must be enough, because Tegan slowly relaxes before going in to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers, and they kill a couple of hours on the couch, talking about things that don’t matter.

 

Jack avoids Ianto for a while after the cannibal thing, as much as you can avoid someone that you see nearly twelve hours a day on average. Ianto lets him, because if he doesn’t then they just might have to talk about this, and he isn’t ready for that.

Then Suzie comes back to life, or something close, they nearly lose Gwen – and Ianto’s so, so grateful for the decision Jack made, because given the choice, he would have picked Gwen too – and Owen and Tosh stumble off to get as royally smashed this time around as the last, but he can’t bear to tear himself away from Jack now, not this time.

He takes care of Suzie’s body himself, forges Owen’s documentation because he’s no doctor, but then again this death was hardly medical. He has her pulled out, looking into the face of a person that he loved and is burying for the second time as he fills out the rest of the paperwork. He’s doing everyone’s, putting their neat – or not so neat – signatures at the end of each form. He can’t help Gwen, can’t get drunk with Owen and Tosh, and can’t bring himself to search out Jack, but he can do this.

He doesn’t need to find Jack, because the other man comes to him, steps heavy as he leans across from him, tilted against the morgue wall on the opposite side of Suzie’s body. He doesn’t say anything, so neither does Ianto, putting Tosh’s miniature scrawl at the end of another form.

“Thank you, for doing all this,” Jack says.

“It’s my job, sir,” he finally gets to one he actually has to fill out, and starts putting in archival numbers, possible side effects, noting down storage procedure.

“No, it’s not,” Jack voice is clearer than it was before – he must be facing Ianto now, “It’s mine.” Ianto looks up then, and Jack’s not looking at him anymore, head tilted up. He snorts, “One day we’re going to run out of space.”

Ianto’s seen that look on Jack before, and knows how he typically gets it from his face. He’s been holding out, but it’s fairly obvious to him now that it was ridiculous of him. He’s in love with Jack. He may have been denying it to himself up until a cannibal held a knife to his throat, but he figures he’s been well and truly fallen since he first went into Jack’s mind, found out the way it ticked. It wasn’t a calm mind, but it was chaotic in a good way, in a way that Ianto’s mind liked, found fascinating, amazing, and beautiful.

He already knows that he’ll never hear this Jack tell him he loves him. It’s only hurting himself trying to wait out for it.

“I still have that stopwatch, if you’re interested,” he says before thinking.

Jack turns his head, quirking an eyebrow, “So?”

“Lots of things you can do with a stopwatch,” Ianto’s just now getting future Jack’s bark of laughter, wonders if this is how time travel drives people mad, “Think about it.”

It takes a second, but then Jack breaks out in a sly grin, “Oh yeah. I can think of a few.”

“It’s quite the list,” Ianto’s trying not to burst out in hysterical laughter – he’s quoting himself, and back then Jack was quoting this thousand year old conversation, parroting his own response to it, and god if he thinks about that too long he really will burst out into laughter, which will not be a great way to start the evening.

Jack’s grinning full out now, in every sense the cat that’s finally caught the canary after a long chase. Too bad Jack doesn’t know there was never any doubt about the finish line. “Are you about done with all that?”

“Almost,” Ianto allows, his own mouth curling into a smile of anticipation.

“Ten minutes,” and if Jack meant for that to come out as a question, he’s failed.

“In counting,” Ianto promises, slipping his stopwatch from his pocket to start the timer. Jack grins, throws him a wink, and walks away.

Ianto takes a deep breath before zipping up Suzie and setting the cryogenic settings, leaving the rest of the paperwork for tomorrow. He has more important things to do.

 

When Jack kisses him, slow and probing, it’s like coming home. He moans and pulls Jack closer as he leans against the desk, shifting upward just enough so that he’s sitting on the edge. Jack gasps when he breaks away, moving his lips down his neck to suckle onto his racing pulse as he undoes his shirt, pushing off braces and soft blue dress shirt so they fall to the floor.

“Ianto,” Jack moans, “are you-”

He has heard that question fall from Jack’s mouth in situations just like this too much, and seals his lips over Jack’s to cut him off. He shrugs out of suit jacket before working on Jack’s belt, tossing it aside and getting Jack’s fly undone before the other man breaks the kiss. “You’re good at this,” he gasps, lips already swollen as he works off Ianto’s tie.

“I’ve had practice,” Ianto says, tugging at Jack’s shirt until he gets the hint and pulls it over his head, Ianto using the time to shed his own top layer. While Jack’s shirt is still tangled around his arms and head he surges forward, twists them so he’s pressing Jack up against the wall, holding his hands down. It’s a light enough grip that Jack knows this is play, that Ianto isn’t trying to hurt him or take advantage of this situation, of his vulnerability. 

He bites down on Jack’s pectoral muscle, soothes away the bite with his tongue and uses his free hand to rub over the rest of Jack’s chest, pausing over the thin, circular scar on the bottom left side of his ribcage. It’s the one scar that stays with him through each death, even when the others from his life have faded away.

He tugs Jack’s shirt the rest of the way off when the other man makes the low keening sound he was looking for. “Ianto,” he pants, eyes wide.

“Yes sir?” Ianto smirks, feeling Jack’s cock twitch against him at the title.

“Are – you’re,” Jack can’t seem to form words, and Ianto wonders if Jack had been expecting him to be some sort of blushing virgin, which is ridiculous and hadn’t been the case the first time around.

“Yes,” Ianto says, because it doesn’t really matter what the question is; if Jack’s asking, that’s always the answer.

Jack pulls him close to kiss him again, working off Ianto’s trousers so he can kick them to the side – judging by the groan in the back of his throat he’s really quite pleased that Ianto goes commando. “How,” he pants as Ianto relieves him of his own trousers, “do you-”

Ianto cuts him off with a kiss again, wondering if he’s going to let Jack get out a complete sentence at some point during the night. Probably not. He gentles this one though, uses his hands to cup Jack’s face and slow down the frantic pace they’ve set, presses his body against Jack’s in a way that’s both comfort and arousal. “However. Your choice.”

Jack’s still staring at him like he’s the best present on Christmas morning, curling his hands around Ianto’s hips, “Do me?”

Ianto hadn’t been expecting that, but he nods, presses a sharp kiss against Jack’s lips before saying “Okay.”

It’s just like before, except better, because this is a little more equal. Less feeling filled, maybe, but just as good. Jack makes it good, isn’t as loud as in the future, letting out soft moans and gasps and pleas that contradict the loudness that he uses to approach everything else in life.

When Jack comes first, Ianto is ridiculously pleased with himself, thrusting shallowly so as to not hit Jack’s over-sensitive prostate to pull him over the edge.

Afterwards, collapsed on the office floor, Ianto can sense Jack watching him, unsure of what Ianto expects now, he’s guessing. He shifts to look Jack in the face, sees the uncertainty in his eyes before saying brightly, “That was fun.”

Jack snorts, “Yep.” He’s relaxed a bit, but is still watching Ianto warily.

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not some bloody girl, Jack.”

“Meaning?” Jack asks, and Ianto hates that Jack’s gotten not-horrible at copying his eyebrow.

“We had fun. We’ll have fun again. Don’t over think things,” Ianto advises, moving to kiss Jack hard on the mouth before pulling himself up to pull on his trousers.

“Whoa,” Jack sits up, “where are you going?”

“Water – I have the feeling as soon as you get the energy to do more than prop yourself on your elbows, I won’t be leaving this office for a while more.”

“Oh,” Jack says, “that’s all right then. Grab me one?”

Ianto nods, padding out the kitchen, doing his best to ignore the very tempting picture a naked Jack Harkness makes all sprawled out on the floor like that.

It’s a long night, and it’s bloody fantastic.


	8. VIII

Part VIII

When Ianto walks out of his shower one morning to find a strange man sitting on his counter, he freezes. He then looks out the window, and relaxes. “You’re different. I like the bowtie.”

“Bowties are cool,” the man says, tugging on his tweed jacket to straighten it before running a hand through his hair.

“You’re nervous,” Ianto says, moving forward to snag the bag next to his hip. There are about seven different kinds of bagels inside, and he bites into an onion one while sticking the asiago cheese in the toaster, “you don’t have to be. I’ve already worked through most of my angst about the whole not warning me my world was collapsing about my ears.” He slams the toaster oven door closed with more force than strictly necessary.

“Oh yes, I can see that.”

Ianto growls, feeling for the first time since Suzie his age, and furious and broken and alone, “Are you out of your mind? Why did you let me go through that? Why did Jack? What is going on?”

He’s starting to hyperventilate, and the Doctor hops down from the counter to place his hands on Ianto’s shoulders, “Breathe slow, with me now, in,” he drags in a breath, “and out,” and releases it.

Ianto copies the motion, but the claws of panic are still there. The Doctor raises his hands, cupping his face, “Ianto, Ianto, Ianto,” he chants, pressing his forehead against the younger man’s, “Look at me now.”

Ianto does, and the face and body are different, and the eyes are too, except for the way where they’re exactly the same. It’s like looking into the time stream itself, and for one blessed moment there is silence, the clock of the world paused in the moment where Ianto drowns in the Timelord’s eyes. “Fire,” he breathes, and can almost see the flash of flames beneath the other man’s pupils. He feels the broken mess of his mind, so convoluted even he doesn’t mess about too much in there, snapped back into place by the Doctor. He winces; it’s like popping in a dislocated shoulder, and once the burn of pain fades away there’s only relief.

“Oh, Ianto,” he murmurs, “you’re mind, your neat, beautiful, logical mind. What happened?” There’s no disgust or disappointment in his tone, but Ianto burns with shame none the less.

“It was the Battle of Canary Warf,” a very familiar voice informs, and Ianto panics, wrenching himself away from the Doctor in order to twist himself to find himself face to face with Jack.

“You’re old!” he blurts.

Jack pouts, coming forward to rest his hands lightly on Ianto’s hips. His hair is just barely speckled with grey, and soft lines mar his face – beyond that he’s exactly the same, tiny changes really, except that it’s more than that, more than looks. The Jack of his time is amazing, handsome, and a cyclone of energy. So was the Jack that had visited him before the battle. This one is too, but he’s – distinguished. Wild still, but calmer, not as rabid.

“Hello,” Jack greets softly when Ianto can bring himself to look into deep blue eyes.

“Hi,” Ianto repeats, feeling like an idiot, “You came back.”

“I told you I would – besides, I’m a selfish man. I couldn’t bear not seeing you again.”

Ianto doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he kisses him instead.

“When are we?” Jack breathes, slipping out of Boeshane, “I’m not about to come storming down the stairs, am I?”

“You stay over?”

Before, Jack would have started panicking about timelines. This one doesn’t, literally shrugging it off, “So no, then? That narrows it down.”

“Sky Gypsy,” Ianto says, trailing his hands over the lines in Jack’s face, “I didn’t know you aged.”

“Slowly,” Jack grins, “very, very slowly.”

“How long?” Ianto asks.

“Two thousand years or so, since you saw me last,” he catches Ianto’s hand, “it’s the same as always. You probably just didn’t notice last time since you hadn’t seen younger me for years.”

“Right,” Ianto says, “so that makes you?”

“Four thousand something,” Jack shrugs, “it’s hard to keep track, especially as I don’t stay linear for all of it.”

Ianto blinks, and wonders vaguely why he’s taking this so calmly. “Not that I’m not ecstatic to have you here, because I am, but is there a reason?”

Jack and the Doctor trade a significant look over his shoulder, and Ianto kind of wants to hurt people, because he’s not blind, now is he?

“Jack, Doctor,” he says, stepping away from Jack so he can frown equally at both of them.

How two of the most powerful beings in the universe can look like naughty schoolboys escapes Ianto – but at least the Doctor has the bowtie for it.

“I’m really only here to deliver a message, I can’t stay long,” Jack says, managing to be serious without being grave. “The Doctor is my transportation, plus he likes you.”

Ianto raises an eyebrow at the Doctor, and he shrugs, “My past, you’re future. You make good tea.”

“What’s the message, and who’s it from?” he asks, already resigning himself to another blink of time with the man he loves.

Jack smiles, pulls him close again to kiss him, and says in Boeshane, “Don’t trust him. Then trust him, if you must. Courtesy of a future version of you and a time-locked message.”

Ianto raises an eyebrow, feeling himself melt against this Jack. He thinks he might like this one best, this calm and centered man who looks at him with love in his eyes and not pain and grief. He wonders if that makes him selfless or selfish. “Thank you, from that perfectly clear message from myself.”

Jack laughs, holding him a bit tighter, “Give it a few weeks.”

Ianto’s pretty sure he manages a skeptical eyebrow well enough, but then he smells burning bagels, which he then retrieves to stop his house from burning to the ground, and it kind of ruins it. When he turns back around, he sees the glint of metal on Jack’s hand. He freezes, then forces himself to relax. It could mean nothing, after all.

Time has healed Jack, and settled him, and when he feels the heavy gaze on him he says simply, “Ianto?”

The younger – so, so much younger – man brings Jack’s hand up to his face and thumbs the deep purple colored band on his finger, made of foreign metal. Jack’s confusion clears, but he still doesn’t explain, and Ianto hates that Jack’s making him say it. “What does this mean?”

“Same as it means here,” Jack says gently, and Ianto feels shame rush through him.

“You shouldn’t kiss me if you’re married, Jack,” he says. He can’t find it in himself to be jealous of another person, in another time, possibly on a different planet and of another species. That doesn’t mean he appreciates unintentionally making Jack a cheater.

The Doctor laughs and Jack’s lips quirk up at the corners, “I discussed it with my husband before I left. This is allowed – you are allowed. It’s not cheating if everyone’s aware of what’s going on, and permission is given, right?”

Ianto wants to glare a little, because he’s almost positive that Jack wouldn’t have picked that particular word if he hadn’t been scanning Ianto’s surface thoughts, but considering the amount of times Ianto does it to the present Jack, it would be a mite hypocritical. “Everything all right up there then?” he asks, pressing his hand against Jack’s temple. The last time a future version of Jack had visited him, he couldn’t have read Ianto’s thought even if he’d been projecting them with the equivalent intensity of a blow horn, it’d been so messed up in there, worse than even Ianto’s had been, before the Doctor had fixed him.

“Yeah,” Jack breathe out, and Ianto reaches out mentally, just a little, just to confirm it’s the truth. Jack pulls away from him, and Ianto feels his mouth drop open, because Jack hadn’t been fast enough.

“Bloody hell,” he says, and if ever there is a time for him to feel jealous, it’s now. He doesn’t though, and knows that both Jack and the Doctor are eyeing him warily, but he only has eyes for Jack, and not even for his face. He hadn’t really been paying attention to what Jack had been wearing before, the dark dress pants and jacket that shimmer ever so slightly when he moves and a dark red shirt of a strange cut underneath. Ianto probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t known, and the strange cut of the shirt is partially responsible. Jack’s abdomen is distended just slightly, looking more like he ate too much at his last meal than anything else.

Only a second round of ice cream doesn’t change a person’s mental wavelength, doesn’t alter it so there’s thin, wobbling undercurrent along with Jack’s usual booming mind.

“The other reason I can’t really stay for more than a day,” Jack says, watching Ianto intently, waiting for some other reaction, “My husband agreed to let me come to you, and be with you, but in my condition he gets rather twitchy if I’m away from him for too long.”

Ianto doesn’t answer, even though he can tell that for the first time Jack is nervous. He goes to one knee and presses his hand against Jack’s stomach, and reaches deep for the tiny, delicate mind. It’s farther along than the Jack’s little bump would indicate, set so far back in his body that Ianto imagines it’s rather uncomfortable. He brushes against it tentatively, and gasps when it responds in turn, giving the mental equivalent of a warm, sleepy hello. Jack huffs when the little thing shifts inside of him, pressing just that little bit closer to Ianto before shifting back into place.

Jack’s warm, solid hand covers the one Ianto has pressed against his stomach, “She likes you.”

“She?” Ianto breathes.

“Yeah – we found out last month,” he pauses, hesitant again. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Ianto repeats, looking up to meet Jack’s gaze, “Fuck me, Jack. You’re going to have a motherfucking kid!” He knows his voice is filled with both wonder and pure happiness, and that he must sound like an idiot.

“I should hope not – I’m not a big fan of incest, although I’ll take you up on that first bit,” Jack’s grin is huge, “You don’t mind?”

“I love it,” Ianto confesses, still not removing his hand from Jack’s abdomen. “You’re so lonely now, and a thousand years from now. Apparently it takes you forever, but you’re married, making a family, and you’re so bloody happy Jack – I can feel it. I wish it could be me, giving you these things,” he admits, unabashed to this Jack even if he’s still tip toeing around the Jack that’s still his, or as close as he’s expecting it to get, “but I’ve known since practically day one that that wasn’t going to happen, and I love you anyway.”

Jack just stares down at Ianto for a long moment, then pulls him up, rough, to smash his mouth against his. Ianto’s caught off guard, but responds to the kiss. Mindful of the Doctor’s presence, he gentles it, makes it soft and slow before pulling away.

“Jack?” Ianto asks, brushing some tears from the other man’s face with his thumb.

“Fucking hormones,” he grumbles, voice thick, “I’ll be right back.” He heads off in the direction of the bathroom, and Ianto’s beyond impressed that he still remembers where it is.

He turns back to the Doctor, who’s watching him with a small smile as he leans against his counter, slowly tearing a chocolate chip bagel to pieces. Ianto resists the urge to get the broom and dustpan with all the crumbs that have fallen to the ground.

“Sorry about yelling earlier,” he says, moving closer to the Doctor so as to not give in and go check on Jack, “and thank you, for fixing my head.” It gives Ianto a headache that this alien had fixed in an instant what would have taken, had been taking, Ianto years.

“Quite all right,” the Doctor assures, offering Ianto the half of bagel he’s not working into teeny tiny pieces. The Welshman accepts it, biting into it without bothering to deal with the toaster after the last time.

Ianto closes his eyes as he chews, his mind still spinning with the thought of Jack having a child. For one, he’d always thought that was a joke, but for another, he can’t imagine his Jack, who’s still so closed off and angry at things sometimes, settling down with a kid. But for the one that had just kissed him, who was in his bathroom now, it works, and it’s not even like the changes are that great. It was still Jack, just a Jack that had found a little peace.

“Credit for your thoughts?” the Doctor probes, and Ianto smiles in apology for zoning out on him.

“Thinking about Jack,” Ianto rolls his eyes, “story of my life.”

The Doctor grins, “Not the average Jack Harkness, huh?”

Ianto hums, “Doctor? Is Jack’s husband good to him?”

If the Doctor’s expression goes any softer, his face will turn into a marshmallow, “Yes, he’s very good to him. Better to Jack than he is to himself most days, and vice versa.”

There’s a light tug of jealousy, because Ianto’s only human, but he’s happier than he is envious. Before he can delve too deep into these thoughts, his mobile rings from its place next to the Doctor on the counter. He reaches for it automatically, flipping it open, “Jones.”

“Ianto!” Jack, his Jack, says, and Ianto holds a finger to his lips while looking at the Doctor. “Where are you?”

Ianto curses before answering, eye’s flickering to the clock, “Sorry, sir. Something came up, and I don’t believe I’ll be able to make it in today.”

“Are you all right? Are you sick?” Jack demands, irritation morphing into concern.

“I’m fine, I just have some things I need to take care of. If an emergency arises, of course feel free to call me in.”

Jack’s hesitating on the other end of the line, “Oh. All right. If you need help, let us know.”

“Of course, Sir. Have a productive day.” Ianto’s already sure that unless an emergency does come up, his team is going to spend the day playing card games and making a mess of everything.

“You too,” Jack says before hanging up.

Ianto types a message to Tosh: Not coming in today. Please feed Myfanwy. Carol at the Starbucks on the corner has everyone’s orders. The good biscuits are in the cabinet behind the bad coffee. – IJ

He feels an arm encircle his waist, and Jack rests his head on his shoulder. Ianto can feel the swell of his stomach pressed up against his back. “I remember that day. I was driving myself nuts trying to figure out what you were doing – I thought you were a spy for Torchwood One for a while, you know.”

Ianto blinks, “Really?”

Jack hums, “It was the only reason I could think of that the Director always gave you personal calls, and why you were requested by them so often. Of course, Lillian was a complete doll, and there wasn’t anything major I was keeping from her, besides the obvious, so I gave up on it, it being ridiculous.”

The Doctor regards them both, smiling. “I’ll be back to collect you later, shall I?”

Jack agrees, but Ianto frowns, “You don’t have to go.”

“You should catch up,” he says, already inching away.

“For someone who claims to like me, you don’t seem to stick around,” Ianto says.

The Doctor darts forward, placing a quick kiss to Ianto’s forehead so that for a moment he’s squashed between him and Jack. “We’ll have our time,” he says solemnly, skittering out through the sliding glass door and to the TARDIS before Ianto can answer.

“You two are keeping secrets from me,” he sighs, leaning into Jack a little.

He chuckles, “You shouldn’t throw black kettles in your glass house, Mr. Jones.”

Ianto turns in the embrace, placing one arm around Jack’s neck as he kisses his pulse point and placed his other hand against his stomach. “Why are you here?”

“I had a message to deliver,” he reminds, “It nearly gave me a heart attack when Torchwood 48302 called saying they had a message for me. Granted, they get really pissy if you use their official name, since they unanimously voted to get their branch renamed Torchwood: Santa’s Workshop – they’re based on the northern pole of their planet – after they dug up some old literature on the man, but I just can’t do it with a straight face. Which, in hindsight, was probably the point.”

Four thousand years old, Ianto thinks, and he still babbles when he’s nervous. He presses his lips to Jack’s just to shut him up, and pulls back before saying, “Stop being an idiot.” He presses down on Jack’s bump gently, “You shouldn’t be risking yourself like this. You may be immortal, but your child isn’t. What if you died? Your factory settings don’t include your child. God, what if you died and then you came back and -” Ianto cuts himself off, the thought too horrible to even articulate. What if Jack was shot in the head, and died, but then came back – with the baby still inside him, having died with the lack of oxygen but unlike her father unable to be resurrected. Just in there, a still born baby. How would they even be able to get it out of Jack? He heals so quickly alive, they’d have to kill him again just to get it out.

Ianto pulls Jack tighter against him, cheek to cheek as he squeezes his eyes tight. He reaches out again, to the faint mental wavelength jumbled within Jack’s. He receives another warm greeting, more aware and familiar this time, and Ianto responds in turn, sends a wash of love and comfort to the little being within his lover’s body so intense that Jack’s whole body relaxes with it even as he breathes in sharply. “Ianto,” he murmurs, “it’s okay. I get home safely. The Doctor’s met my child.”

“Why risk it?” Ianto asks, “You could have just as easily waited until she was born. It’s the advantage to a time machine.”

Jack tilts away just enough to kiss the corner of Ianto’s mouth before answering, voice low, “I wanted you to meet my daughter.”

“Oh,” Ianto presses his forehead against Jack’s, automatically feeling the low buzz of his emotions. God, is he glad to have his mind back in working order again. “Thank you.”

He kisses him again, and it’s the last bit of talking they do for a while.

 

Jack and Ianto are in bed, Ianto leaning up against the wall with the older man lying between his legs with his head pillowed on Ianto’s chest. Ianto feels warm and content, and sends a mental thank you to some unknown man in the future for allowing him this time with Jack. He doesn’t know if he had Jack in the way that this man does that he’d be willing to share.

There’s a light blinking on his phone when Jack snags it off the table, flipping it open to read the text from Tosh, Ianto looking down to do the same.

Okay, thanks. What’d you say to Jack? He looks like someone just ran over his puppy. – TS

It’s from a few hours before, and Ianto tugs it from Jack’s hand to type back.

Nothing to get that reaction. If he’s still grumpy, there are some emergency truffles in the freezer. They typically cheer him up, because he’s a child. Don’t tell Owen where they are. – IJ

“I knew it!” Jack croons, “I knew you micromanaged me behind my back.”

Ianto grins, “You need it, sometimes.”

Jack pouts when Ianto’s phone vibrates with a return message.

Worse – he’s in his office with the blinds closed. He ignored *Gwen*. She even went so far as to ask for extra shooting practice, and nada. – TS

There are two more messages in his inbox before he can send a response.

Jack’s being Jack. Can you do something? I hate when he gets like this. – GC

FIX HIM. HE’S THROWING THINGS. – OH

Ianto sighs and pinches the Jack between his legs.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“The other you is too far away. Any chance you remember why you’re throwing a temper tantrum?”

Jack doesn’t answer, looking at the messages displayed across the screen. “I didn’t know that you all did it.” His voice has gone sad, wistful even, and Ianto presses a kiss to the side of his forehead.

“We kind of like you, is all. Besides, if you’re in a bad mood, it gets harder to breath in the Hub,” Ianto says, sending a quick message to his co-workers before sending one to Jack.

On it. – IJ

Have you blown up the Hub yet? – IJ

Jack laughs, tilting his head to kiss the side of Ianto’s neck sloppily. “I remember your text messages. I loved them.”

Ianto smiles before looking back down at his phone.

Working on it. Give me a few more hours. How’s your end going? – CJH

Well. I miss Myfanwy though. – IJ

Oi. You miss the bloody dinosaur more than my charming presence? – CJH

She is neater. – IJ

But I’m better in bed. At least I hope I am. – CJH

No comment. – IJ

Aw, come on Ianto. You love me, don’t you? – CJH

Ianto blinks, staring down at his phone in shock. “How do I answer that?” He’s not sure if he’s asking the Jack from the future or just the world in general. It doesn’t matter, because neither offer an answer. His mobile flashes another message across the screen before he can think of a reply.

Have to go. Be here tomorrow. I don’t pay you to not work. – CJH

Ianto frowns, confused and strangely hurt by the abrupt tone of the message.

Of course, Sir. – IJ

But because he can’t leave it there – completely ruins the point of messaging him in the first place – he adds onto it:

I imagine you are a far better bed companion than the pteranodon. – IJ

I’ll take what I can get. – CJH

Ianto frowns, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, unable to tell the tone from words alone. He gets his answer when his phone receives three more messages.

Phone sex is safe sex. – OH

Thanks Ianto! – GC

Thank fucking God. – TS

Ianto laughs before setting his phone aside and resting his chin atop Jack’s head. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?” the older man asks, pout clear in his voice.

“No,” Ianto answers, “we just all hate seeing you unhappy. Plus, you’re kind of scary when you’re mad.”

Jack nods, letting more of his weight settle against Ianto, pulling his hands around his body so they rest on his stomach. Ianto reaches out again and softly brushes his mind up against the child’s. She reaches out, and Ianto nearly has a heart attack at the tiny being’s entreaty for a cuddle. He presses his hands firmer against Jack’s abdomen, and wraps the child in as much comfort and caring as he can manage. Jack nearly goes boneless with it, singing softly under his breath in a language that’s neither of Earth nor Boeshane.

“Jack,” he says carefully, “is your child human?”

His body spasms awkwardly for a moment, like it wants to tense but with the waves of love Jack’s getting from Ianto it can’t be bothered. “Why?”

“Normal, human babies aren’t typically able to mentally communicate from the womb, Jack,” he says wryly, pressing a soft kiss against the shell of his ear. “You can’t honestly think I’d care. I love you, all of you, and that includes your baby, regardless of any odd parentage. I’m just curious, it’s not important.” Ianto marvels at his ability to say such things to this Jack, when the thought of saying anything close to the one of his time makes him want to swallow his tongue, no matter how true they might be.

“She’s human,” Jack says, voice soft, “more or less. I’m human, her father’s human too, but neither of us are quite normal. We weren’t really surprised when she started responding to our mental touches – we weren’t counting on it, but it was always a possibility.”

“Jack,” Ianto says, laying more kisses against his neck.

“Yes?” he tilts his head to the side, allowing more access.

“Tell me the name?”

“My husband’s?” he murmurs, eyes falling closed.

“No,” he nibbles delicately at Jack’s earlobe, “your baby’s.”

“Don’t know,” Jack says, “she hasn’t told us yet.”

Ianto takes a moment to contemplate being so mentally advanced, so young, that you can apparently name yourself, decides that it’s too complicated to think about right now, and goes back to the more immediate distraction of Jack’s neck.

 

“Are you decent!?”

Ianto can’t help it – he giggles helplessly into Jack’s stomach, stretched out as they are on his couch, with him settled in between Jack’s legs, and his own falling off the other side. They’re fully clothed though, which makes the Doctor walking into a wall with his hand pressed over his eyes even funnier.

The sun hasn’t risen high enough in the sky that there’s anything more than weak, predawn light arching through the windows from the grey colored sky. The Doctor rubs at the red spot on his forehead, glaring at the wall as if it had walked into him as opposed to the other way around. When he catches sight of Ianto and Jack, his irritation melts away, and he runs a hand through his long dark hair bashfully. “You ready?” he asks, clearly knowing that they aren’t, but that Ianto has to answer to his own Jack soon and that this one has an anxious husband to get home to.

Ianto nods anyway, his cheek pressed against the bump. He closes his eyes, preparing himself to give one last goodbye to the baby. She must know what’s happening, because the child’s become fond of Ianto, and tries to grasp onto his mind in such a way that he cannot leave.

“Sorry little one,” he says into the skin of Jack’s stomach, his mind echoing the pained apology.

The resulting mental nudge he receives from the child is staggering, and leaves him laughing and crying equally. Jack scrambles upright, yanking Ianto into a standing position as well. “What’s wrong?” he demands, and Ianto kisses him to quell the note of panic in his voice.

“Nothing,” he says when he pulls away, “nothing.”

Jack’s calmed, and a slow smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “She told you her name, didn’t she?” Ianto nods, and he hears the Doctor cheer from behind him, which is ridiculous since the other man’s met the child in the future, so he should already know what her name is. Jack’s smile doesn’t lessen even as he says, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“I would,” he swears, kissing him again, because he’s pretty sure this is the last he’ll be seeing of this Jack and he has to sneak in as many as he can manage, “but she was quite insistent that it stay a secret for a while longer.”

“You and your secrets,” Jack says, and while it could have come out bitter his voice is fond instead. He kisses Ianto, and Ianto returns it with as much passion as he can muster, knowing that it’ll take little more than a raised eyebrow and a smirk to get his Jack’s tongue down his throat, but that this’ll be the last time he’ll be kissing this one.

When they separate, they press their foreheads together, same as last time, and Ianto stares into eyes a deeper hue of blue than his own. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Don’t,” Jack presses a kiss to the corner of his lips, “I’m right here. Remember that – I’m right here, and I love you.” He frowns, bringing his hand up to cup Ianto’s cheek, “I won’t say it, because I’m a cruel, dumb bastard, but I do.”

Ianto nods, unwilling to fight with Jack now over something so trivial. Before he’d told Jack that he was sure that he’d known he’d been loved when he died, but now he wonders if he’ll lose his last breath doubting the affection he sees in this Jack’s eyes. Unless something changes radically with his relationship with Jack, he suspects that he just might. “I love you,” he says in return, not voicing his doubts, but judging by the look on Jack’s face he senses them anyway.

“I’ll miss you,” Jack breathes, “so, so much. So will she,” he presses Ianto’s hand against his stomach, and Ianto doesn’t reach out mentally this time, but feels the baby shift within Jack to press up against his hand anyway.

They could stand here forever going on about this, but they can’t, so Ianto kisses him one last time before stepping back. “Be happy Jack,” he says, and it comes out part wish and part command.

Jack nods once, sharp, and closes his eyes to stop the buildup of tears from falling before he turns on his heel and walks out the door. Ianto follows his walk to the TARDIS, smiles large enough for Jack to see when he pauses at the entrance and looks back. He smiles back for a second before disappearing inside.

Ianto sighs, turning to the solemn Doctor still at his side. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he answers, serious. He folds Ianto’s hand between his own and says, “We’ll see each other soon, Mr. Jones.” He nods before going to the TARDIS, disappearing from Ianto’s backyard with a familiar grinding noise.

Ianto sighs, and he’s half tempted to get as royally smashed as the last time he had to say goodbye to Jack, but he’s older now, and knows that there actually are problems that copious amounts of alcohol can’t fix. Besides, he has to leave for work in twenty minutes if he doesn’t want to be late.

 

“Ianto!” Gwen greets with a smile which only widens when he places her favorite pastry alongside her coffee at her desk. “How are you?”

“Gwen,” he smiles, “I’m fine, and took care of the little issue that popped up yesterday. Might I say how proud I am of you all that the Hub is still in one piece.”

Gwen giggles, and Ianto feels a something light hit the back of his head. He looks down to see that it was one of Owen’s winter gloves, the black leather ones that Ianto had bought him last year.

“Oi!” he complains, swiping the glove from Ianto’s outstretched palm as he walks by, Toshiko smirking behind him. “We can manage a day without blowing something up, although such days are dreadfully boring. Where’s my coffee?” he spots Gwen’s plate, “and do I get a Danish?”

“Coming up, and no,” Ianto calls, walking towards the kitchen. Before Owen can do more than make an inarticulate offended sound, he adds, “I got you a cinnamon roll instead.”

There’s a pause as while Ianto sets both of Owen’s and Tosh’s things on a tray, before Owen says longingly, “The ones from that place that does the thing with stuff? You know, with the swirly thing?”

Gwen and Tosh are looking at Owen as if he’s high and Ianto smirks triumphantly as he passes Owen the coffee and roll, “Of course.”

Owen accepts both cheerfully before finishing the walk to autopsy, calling back, “Thanks mate! This is why you’re my favorite!”

“You hear that?’ he says to the girls, handing Tosh her drink and muffin, “I’m Owen’s favorite, aren’t I lucky?”

They giggle, and Ianto feels the little bit of him that had been slid out of place by the visit from future Jack click back, the feeling of love and warmth he feels for his team a comfort like no other.

“Well,” a familiar voice booms out from up above them, “you’re my favorite too, so I understand where the poor doctor is coming from.”

All three of them look up to see Jack grinning down at them. “That’s harassment, Sir,” Ianto says.

Jack’s grin widens, “Don’t deny, you love it. Does the runner of this joint get a treat as well?”

“I’ll be there in a moment, Sir,” Ianto says, and Jack gives them a jaunty three finger salute before retreating back to his office.

Gwen and Tosh sigh, going to their respective workstations. “Thank you Ianto,” they say, before becoming immersed into whatever work that Ianto’s almost positive they should have finished yesterday, but didn’t.

He doesn’t bother to knock before entering, sliding the plate with two crème filled donuts and large mug of coffee aside so he can balance on the edge of Jack’s desk. The older man abandons the paperwork to paw at the mug, leaning back in his chair to grin at Ianto who is cradling his own cup of coffee. “Did yesterday go well?” Jack asks.

Ianto nods, taking a deep sip while noting how young Jack looks, compared to the other one. But he looks older too, with the ghost of the past and shadows of deep pain in his eyes that the Jack from the future had managed to move past, had learned to let go of in order to find happiness with another man, to fall in love and start a family.

“Ianto?” Jack asks, his grin having slipped into a frown at the younger man’s silence. Ianto uses his free hand to grab Jack’s, bringing it to his lips so he can kiss his knuckles. Jack lets out a deep breath, and Ianto inwardly warms at how even this Jack loses some of that ever present tension at his lips.

He can’t keep doing this, treating Jack like he’s any less than his future incarnations. It’s not fair to either of them, cheapens what little meaning he can scrape together from the relationship that he has with Jack now. He knows that Jack trusts him, cares about him, and feels safe with him even. It should be enough – has to be enough.

This is the Jack who’s mind he first touched, who made love to him when he could have fucked him, hired him, accepted his OCDness and many neuroses with a gentle smile, comforted him, and rushed to his rescue when he’d been held by cannibals. This is the Jack that would have killed for him, the man that Ianto fell in lust with in a crowded Cardiff mall, and the man he fell in love with in Yvonne Hartman’s office two years after that. It’s important that he remembers that.

“Ianto,” Jack repeats, and Ianto kisses his knuckles again, “what’s wrong?”

“You’re an amazing man, Jack Harkness,” he says, and the other man stills as his eyes widen. “You are, without a doubt, one of the best, most brilliant men I have ever met,” he presses his lips against his palm before continuing. Jack looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, and Ianto might consider this more of a problem if it was actually a necessity for the other man. “I won’t lie and say you’re the smartest, most moral, or even the kindest. But you have changed my life for the better by being in it, which many others have not.” He presses one more kiss to Jack’s hand before letting go, “Thank you.”

Jack’s gone pale, and sets his coffee aside to grasp at Ianto’s knees with both hands, at least partially to keep them from shaking. “You’re not sick, are you?”

Ianto wants to laugh – he gets the courage to at least tell the other man partially how he feels, and Jack thinks it’s because he’s dying. “No, I’m fine. It’s just something I thought you should know.” He glances out the window, sees the others are busy and focused on their work, so he slides forward a few inches, tilting his head to meet Jack’s mouth in a deep, soft kiss. Jack’s kissing him like he loves him and it makes Ianto’s heart ache.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Jack whispers, and the way he looks at Ianto is different than it was before.

“They should have,” Ianto murmurs, pressing one more kiss to his lips before sliding all the way off the desk, “I’ll be up later with those files.”

He feels Jack’s gaze on his back as he leaves, but he walks lighter because of it. Maybe everything really will turn out all right.

 

What. The. Fuck.

Ianto’s staring at the bottle of Vodka, like a challenge. The amount of work he has to do now, to tie up loose ends, tie up the big things even – he can’t afford to get smashed, especially since he’s recently come to the conclusion that alcohol doesn’t solve anything. He’s seriously reconsidering his position on this.

“Ianto?” he looks up from his position curled up against the side of Jack’s desk to Tosh.

“Yes?”

She wrings her hands, biting her bottom lip. Ianto sighs and holds out an arm. She joins him on the floor, snuggling up to his side. They don’t say anything until a minute later, Gwen is hovering by the doorway, eyes red and cheeks wet. He smiles, or twitches his lips into some sort of close approximation. She drops to the floor on his other side, and throws her legs on top his own, curling into his side as if she’s trying to curl into him.

“Where’s Owen?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“He’s in autopsy. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he’s not saying anything. Just sitting there,” Tosh says, twisting the corner of Ianto’s tie in between her fingers.

“We should go to him,” he sighs, trying to find the energy to move.

Gwen’s hand covers Tosh’s, both resting on his abdomen. “Ianto, what are we going to do?”

He tips his head back, “There was a Torchwood before Jack, and there’ll be a Torchwood after him.”

“Is this what this is?” the Welshwoman asks, “After Jack?”

Ianto shrugs, even though he knows that it’s not. He’s alive. He dies in Jack’s arms. Ergo, Jack must come back. That doesn’t say when, though, or for how long. For all Ianto knows, Jack rushes into a battle, Ianto dies, and then Jack leaves again. At the very least though, he knows that Jack is coming back.

And he knows he’s safe – not that being in danger is a huge problem, most of the time. But just because Jack can’t be killed doesn’t mean he can’t be hurt, and he’s with the Doctor. Ianto would know the tell-tale grinding sound of the TARDIS anywhere.

He hears the sound of the cog door rolling back, and is already half standing when Owen’s frantic shouts of “Ianto! IANTO!” reach him.

He straightens his suit as he rushes out of the office, the girls hot on his heels. He blinks at what he finds, and absently motions for Gwen to put her gun away. Owen is glaring at the assembled UNIT personnel in their base, and Ianto is so not in the mood to deal with this shit.

“Alan?”

Colonel Mace tares his eyes from Owen to look at him, and for a moment they just stare at each other in companionable confusion.

“Ianto?”

They’ve met, briefly, twice before, but neither of them are the type to forget an important face. “Why the fuck are you here?” he asks bluntly, “Even better, how did you get in?”

“I got the codes from your Head of Security, Liam something or other? We got a tip that your leader, Jack Harkness, has abandoned his post, and as there was no other qualified to lead in his stead, procedure states that UNIT should take over until such a time that qualified personnel can be read into such a position.”

Ianto feels some of his anger bleed away – this wasn’t a coup, it was procedure. “Captain Harkness is away – how do you know that?”

Alan takes out his mobile, showing it to Ianto, “I got this.”

Protocol Nineteen, subsection A.

That’s the outline for how to deal with an active Torchwood base lacking persons with high enough security clearance. The interesting bit is the section under it, the part that no one on the planet could read except Ianto. Boeshane isn’t exactly common on twenty first century Earth.

Time for you to lead again, Ianto. I miss you.

There is only one person it could be from, and Ianto might make his dying act killing Jack for this. He doesn’t care that it’s his future self that’s done this.

Owen’s looking at him sympathetically, or as close as the doctor gets, and the girls are confused. There’s probably a way for Ianto to diffuse the situation and get out of this with all his secrets intact, but judging by Jack’s text message it’d be a waste of time, so he’s not going to even bother.

He hands back the phone, “As you can see, this is clearly unnecessary. I’m here, after all.”

Mace nods, sending the two lower ranking officers he’d brought with him away with a jerk of his thumb. “You should talk to headquarters, seeing as their idiocy has wasted both our times. Are you going to be leading Three now?”

Ianto doesn’t look at his team as he says, “Perhaps.”

Mace grins and claps him on the shoulder, “Please do, mate. Give UNIT a line when hierarchy gets finalized ,will you?”

“Of course, Colonel,” Ianto says, shaking the other man’s hand, “You know the way out, I assume?”

He nods, sweeping his gaze over the other members of Torchwood Three before exiting the same way he’d came. Ianto takes a deep, fortifying breath before turning to face the girls.

“Ianto?” Tosh asks, and she’s scared as well as confused.

“Come here,” he says softly, and raises a hand to her temple. He does what he’s been tempted to do for so long, to both her and Jack, and pushes. He snaps the little foggy screen he’d placed there years ago, so she remembers.

“Ianto Jones, Torchwood One, Top Floor, Head Tactician and Archivist,” falls from her mouth without her consent, leaving her staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “That was you.”

He nods, turning to Gwen, and she has no memories that he can reawaken to make this any easier. They all end up back in Jack’s office while he explains, Owen the first to grab the Vodka since he already knows all this anyway. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember this in the morning. Tosh slowly loses the wariness that she’d gained with her memories, and Gwen’s left looking half in awe, half disgruntled that she’d been left out of the loop.

By the end, it’s some ridiculously early time in the pre-dawn morning, Ianto’s throat is sore, and Owen has obligingly remained merely tipsy as opposed to the shitfaced drunk he’d been tempted by.

“So, only Owen and Director Kale knew who you were?” Tosh confirms at the end.

“Yes,” Ianto sighs, “it seemed safer that way. Now, of course, I’ll need to make my Active status common knowledge, unless we want every read-in organization knocking on our door in an attempt to put us into lock down.”

Gwen pokes his side, “So, are you leader now?” She doesn’t sound opposed to the idea, but she is curious. She knows that Ianto dealt with a lot of the bureaucratic stuff with Jack, but it’s hard to imagine calm, kind, quiet Ianto as the leader of Torchwood.

His face twists, making clear what he thinks of that idea and Owen snorts. “I hate field work. I mean, I’m decent at it, and I do get some childish thrill out of being a faux James Bond, but if I was the new leader, I’d need to be out there a lot more.” His face darkens as something else occurs to him, “We’re going to need to hire more staff. Jack did the work of at least three people, what with not needing to sleep as much and living at the Hub. If we try to run this with only us, someone’s going to get killed.”

“Split it up,” Tosh says, and Ianto’s broken from his musings.

“What?” he frowns.

“The leadership gig. When we’re out in the field without you, make Gwen the leader – she’s the best at field work – with you coordinating from the Hub, and then have you handle everything else. If you make Gwen your second, we get the best of both worlds,” Tosh explains, grinning.

Ianto blinks, turning to said woman, “Gwen?”

The Welshwoman cocks her head to the side, and that she’s taking the time to think about this as opposed to responding immediately makes Ianto even keener on the idea. “Might do,” she says slowly, “Owen, what do you think?”

Her wanting to have the whole team in agreement on this makes Ianto think that even if Owen’s against it, he might overrule him anyway. Gwen’s grown so much since she joined them, and really with her being the newest member she shouldn’t be granted the status of second, but she is the best suited for it.

Owen squints in her general direction before shrugging and saying, “You’re already bossy. Now you’ll just have the status to back it up.”

Ianto and Tosh laugh, and Gwen looks like she’s torn between being offended and amused, and she settles this by rolling her eyes. “So,” she says, “extra staff?”

Ianto grins, because Jack hasn’t even been gone a day and they’re already recovering, drawing closer together to make sure Torchwood remains standing. This is why he loves his team. “I have an idea on that, actually.”

The others match his grin, even if they don’t know why, and he loves, loves, loves them. Even if he can’t be happy with Jack, they’re enough. Which is good, because Torchwood Three’s about to undergo a lot of changes.


	9. IX

Part IX

Ianto’s just about done with setting the timer for the coffee maker when Griffin and Clara stumble down the stairs. “Good morning,” he says, cautious, “I hadn’t expected you to be up this early.”

Griffin yawns and Clara rubs her eyes as she says, “We wanted to catch you before you left.”

“I can give you more time,” Ianto says, “you don’t need to tell me now.”

Griffin throws himself at Ianto, and he lets out a soft grunt as he catches the other man. He relaxes then, because when they’d gone to bed the night before he thought he might have ruined his friendship with them both by telling them the truth, and revealing all the secrets he’d been hiding for so long.

“I want to fight aliens,” he declares, “or save them, or whatever. Really, I just want to play with the pteranodon you told me about, because, dude, fuck the aliens, dinosaurs.”

Ianto grins, “That can be arranged.” Griffin slaps his back before stepping away, and he looks over at Clara, brown hair in a messy bun and pajama bottoms decorated with little coffee mugs – he’d given them to her as a belated birthday present. Her face is blank, and Ianto begins to feel himself go cold.

“If I do this,” she begins, “you realize I’ll be giving up what’s looking to be a fantastic career as a detective inspector, don’t you?”

He nods, not sure of what to say.

She crosses the distance between them to kiss his cheek, “Okay then. I expect to be served coffee three to five times daily, though. At least I’ll get to spend more time with Gwen – this explains why she’s never around ever since she got promoted to ‘special ops’.”

“You know Gwen?” Ianto blinks, torn between happiness and confusion.

Clara presses the brew button on the coffee maker, bypassing the timer. “Yeah – we have dinner or drinks when we can. She’s a sweetheart isn’t she?”

“Nice ass,” Griffin confirms, ducking out the swat his girlfriend offers in response. “Terrible cook, though Rhys is pretty decent in the kitchen.”

Ianto opens his mouth, then closes it, not sure there’s a proper response to that. “Well. Okay, then.”

How did he miss this? Jesus, Owen was never going to let him hear the end of it.

 

Ianto, Owen, and Griffin are on the one side of the training room, while Tosh, Gwen, and Clara are on the other.

“This seems a little unfair,” Griffin says, stretching his hamstring.

“Hardly,” Ianto comments dryly, “We all know the basics, but Gwen and Clara were coppers, and Tosh was trained by UNIT. They’re going to kill us.”

Mark, the instructor Ianto had cajoled from M16, stifles a giggle. That was something that was seriously wigging out Owen – what kind of two meters tall body builder giggles?

“Is this really necessary?” Owen entreats, eyeing the gleam in the girls’ eyes warily. “And why doesn’t Lois have to be here?”

“Because she’s not trained up to basic standards yet,” Griffin, who oversaw the entire teams’ physical training, says with the air of a man who’s repeating himself. “Plus, Ianto wants her to be familiar enough with the Archives that she can start retrieving things by the time we get back.”

“If your system wasn’t so bloody confusing,” Clara mutters.

“It’s color coded,” Ianto protests.

His team stares at him. “With one hundred and thirty seven colors,” Owen intones.

Ianto flushes, but doesn’t respond.

Mark coughs, “As interesting as this all is,” he says with a slow, American southern drawl – and that had been a shocker as well – “my time is valuable. Could we do this now?”

Gwen moves to kick Ianto in the head, and it goes from there.

 

It’s Ianto’s turn to take the night shift at the Hub when the alarms start blaring. He shuts them off, checking the monitor, and nearly has a heart attack when they report that whatever it is hasn’t come from the Rift, and is actually in the Hub, which Ianto doesn’t think should even be possible.

“Miss me?”

Ianto whirls around, but his widened eyes instantly narrow, “What are you doing here?”

John Hart throws him a cocky grin, and if he’s not the same age as Ianto then he’s in the ballpark. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You first,” he says cautiously.

John crosses the distance between them, and Ianto presses his hands against John’s chest in an attempt to stop him, but instead the man just crushes Ianto’s arms between them. He turns his head before John’s lips can meet his own, totally bewildered.

“Hey,” John says, and Ianto’s with it enough to notice that there’s genuine hurt in his tone, “you gave permission.”

Ianto thinks back to a couple short years ago when he’d first met John Hart, and, well, he did. “Sorry,” he says, relaxing just a little, because while you can’t really know with these fifty first century men, if John’s trying to kiss him, then he’s most likely not going to try to kill him.

He doesn’t stop the kiss this time, and just like the last it’s slow and warm. When they pull apart, John’s grinning and Ianto thinks he’s been in Torchwood far too long, because he just quirks an eyebrow in response, “If you’re looking for Jack, he’s not here. Yours or mine.”

Faint irritation flickers across his gaze, and Ianto finds out why when he explains, “The Agency finally got around to informing me that Jack’s on some ridiculous two year solo mission, and to avoid any mess I should just meet him at the Agency after his debriefing,” John pauses the requisite moment to leer, “in two years time.”

“So they gave you a two year vacation?” Ianto asks, still not seeing what the hell the man is doing here.

John looks exasperated, “Time traveler, Mr. Jones. I’m supposed to time jump to when Jack gets back, but Jack gets a cool solo mission, and I’m just supposed to show up to be his sidekick? Hell no.”

Ianto tugs the arms with the vortex manipulator up between them, “Doesn’t this thing track where you go?”

John scoffs, “I’ll just rewire it so the history is edited.” Ianto’s been working on his skeptical eyebrow, and it must be effective, because he explains, “I’m the technologically savvy one – I do maths and shit like that, and Jack knows history, and like a fuck ton of languages. It’s why we were originally partnered. Plus, we’re both from the same time period, and that’s pretty rare.” John senses his confusion and rolls his eyes, “Time traveler. Last time Jack got injured I was stuck with this asshole from the 65th century.”

Ianto blinks. “As fascinating as this all it,” and it is, really, he’s not just dropping a line, “it still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

John’s cut off by Ianto’s mobile ringing, and he sighs as he flips it open and presses it to his ear. “Is everything all right?” Gwen asks, “My phone alerted me that an alarm was triggered. A couple, actually.”

“Nothing serious, I think,” Ianto sighs, “it’s not dangerous.” John’s pout screams that he’s offended by that comment, “It’s related to some stuff I handled with Torchwood One. Are you all right with me reading you in in the morning?”

“Sure, of course,” his second answers, curious but relieved that he’s okay, “I’ll show up a half hour early with breakfast?”

“Perfect,” he confirms, “Ta, Gwen.”

“Ta Ianto!”

He shoves the phone to the side, refocusing his attention upon an amused John, “As you were saying?”

John shrugs, “Not complicated really. I looked for a time period within your life that occurred after you met me, but didn’t have Jack’s temporal signature everywhere, and this is what I got, so this is where I came.”

Ianto frowns, “But why?”

“I want to kill some time, and I like you, Ianto Jones. Plus, Torchwood. That’s got to be fun.”

“You want to work for me?”

“Well, I’d prefer working under you, really,” he smirks, but Ianto’s used to Jack so he doesn’t even blink.

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” he wheedles, “it’ll be fun. Plus, think about all the knowledge I could add to your Archives.”

Ianto twitches, and John’s smirk widens. “Let me in your mind,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

John’s mouth tugs down at the corners, but after barely a moment’s hesitation he shrugs, “You could have at least bought me dinner first.”

Ianto presses his hand to John’s temple – he doesn’t need the physical contact, but he likes the anchor, and most people he performs it on do too – and slides in. He’s a little surprised at how neat and orderly everything is, but John did say he had a scientific mind, and it shows. They didn’t let morons become Time Agents, and John may be a bit of bastard, but he’s also fucking brilliant, even by fifty first century standards. He ignores that though, and delves a little deeper, and it seems like the man is telling the truth. He knows John is hiding things, has thrown the mental equivalent of big black sheets over most of the pieces of his mind. Ianto could pull them away he if he wanted to, and John knows it, but he’s really only interested in finding out if he’s telling him the truth or means them any ill, and once it’s clear that he is and doesn’t, Ianto slips out of his mind.

John blinks, ghosting his hand quickly over his temple. “You’re good; usually I’m left with a massive headache from some idiot bumbling around in there.”

“I do my best,” Ianto say, sucking the corner of his bottom lip in between his teeth. He stops when he notices John’s darkened gaze. “I’ll have to discuss this with my second, but if she’s game and no one else on the team minds, we could honestly use the help.”

 

The next morning when Gwen finds Ianto waiting for her at her desk with a bunch of files in his hand and a grimace on his face, she has to resist the urge to throw the bagels and coffees down and stomp off. Anything that makes Ianto shed the rock hard mask of apathy isn’t anything she wants to touch with a ten foot pole. 

“It was Carole at the coffee place – she says hi,” Gwen says, sitting behind her desk while Ianto leans against the edge of it.

He nods both his acknowledgement and thanks, taking a deep sip before saying, “It’s not that bad.”

She assumes he’s talking about whatever the reason is that she’s at work before the sun is up and not the coffee. She points her partially eaten blueberry bagel in his face, “That? That is not reassuring. I don’t believe you.”

This time he drinks his coffee to hide a smile, which makes Gwen feel marginally better about the situation. It’s only been about a month and half of sharing this strange leadership role with Ianto, but she already feels closer to him than anyone else on the team. Owen and Tosh have always been close to Ianto for as long as she’s known them, and Jack had trailed after him like a hopeful puppy until they’d started their sort-of relationship, and then it turned into something more like the stalking of a tom cat. Clara and Griffin have known Ianto for longer than she has, and clearly think enough of him to drop their lives to join Torchwood at his request. This says nothing of Lois, who’s convinced he hung the stars in the sky. 

Point being, she knows Ianto well enough that if he can find his sense of humor, it’s possible it really isn’t that bad.

“First off,” he says, holding out the top half of the papers to her, “this is not blackmail. Bribery, perhaps, but it’s been in the works for a few weeks and it’s yours regardless of your answer. That said, I am hoping it softens you up a little.”

Gwen blinks, dropping her bagel on her desk and wiping her greasy fingers on her jeans. Ignoring Ianto’s frown at the action, she takes the papers from him and begins to skim. It takes her all of thirty seconds to realize what they are, and her mouth hangs open as her eyes seek Ianto’s for confirmation.

He smiles, which is all that she needs, and her eyes go back to devouring the pages. “You still can’t tell him anything, really,” he says, “You still can’t discuss the details of open cases, and you’ll only be able to give the barest of details on the closed ones.”

“But he can know what I do,” she says, reading the restrictions, “he can know where I work, who I work with, what we fight, why I don’t make it home at night, why I’m tired, where all the bruises come from, why I can’t sleep on the nights I do make it home.” She’s trembling when she looks to Ianto again, and he slides his hand in her own and squeezes. “This isn’t done. In fact, it’s expressly forbidden. How did you manage it?”

Gwen’s eyes, always large, are almost impossible wide now, and he’s so fucking glad he can do this for her, “I’m still the Co-Director of Torchwood, in addition to co-leading Torchwood Three. What’s the point of having all this power if I can’t bend the rules every once in a while?” He winks, and Gwen lunges forward to wrap him in a hug. He returns it, and when they pull apart her smile is as big as her face. “When can I tell him?”

“They still need your signature,” Ianto explains, “and technically it’ll take forty eight hours to process, but if you want to go home and read Rhys in now, I won’t stop you.”

Gwen shakes her head while scrawling her name in the necessary places, “Not a conversation to have before dawn. I’ll do it tonight.” She giggles when she initials in the last place, giving Ianto one more quick hug before settling back in her chair and picking at her bagel again. “Now, what is it that you needed to butter me up for?”

Ianto winces, and slowly begins to explain the complicated history he and Jack share with John Hart.

 

Unwilling to create a paper trail for a temporarily chrono-displaced person, John ends up staying with Ianto, not only because he’s the one with the massive house, but because he’s the only person he listens to with any sort of consistency.

“You live here all by your lonesome?” John asks when he’s been shown his guest bedroom, “That seems, you know, lonely.”

Ianto wants to be irritated, but he just shrugs instead. “Claris and Griffin typically crash here on the weekends, and my brother and his family come over when we both have the time.”

“So,” John says, “it’s lonely.”

Ianto doesn’t say anything, which is really answer enough.

 

The team is slowly getting used to John’s presence, how he flirts like Jack and insults like Owen at his worst while at the same time managing to keep up with, and a good portion of the time exceed, Tosh and her abilities with technology.

Even as they begin to like him, they’re still keeping him at arms length those first few weeks. Of course, that doesn’t last forever. 

Ianto groans when the alert blares, his knee still throbbing and bruised from the last time he’d been in the field. Owen glares at him as he straps on his holster, “You shouldn’t be running around on that, you’re just going to make it worse.”

“I have to go,” he says, “The reports says there are four weevils – so I want at least five in the field.”

“Stupid rule,” Owen mutters, and Griffin rolls his eyes along with Claris.

“Yes,” the lone female says, “how awful, this ridiculous rule which has cut weevil related injuries in half. Ridiculous, I say.”

John laughs, “This looks like fun, can I come?”

Ianto blinks, looking over at the man sitting in front of the computer consol. He’s been so quiet, spending the last few hours doing something hopefully positive to the mainframe, that he has almost forgotten the other man was there.

“You’ll have to,” he says, “unless we want to call someone in or stick Lois in the field, and she’s not ready for that.”

“Thank god,” the dark skinned girl mutters, clipping on a Bluetooth as she steps up to the monitor to co-ordinate. The rest of them laugh at her as they file out the door.

 

“Ianto,” Owen says with false calm, “that’s not a weevil.”

“Nope,” the younger man agrees, trying not to let his voice waver, “those guns are also huge.”

As one, they turn to John who has a grim look on his face. “I’ve encountered them before,” he answers the unasked question, “nasty bastards. They can be taken out with a shot to the head or lower chest, but they’re very, very fast. And before you ask, yes, we do have to kill them. They’re not friendly.”

Normally, they’d probe for more information before acting since John’s MO is to kill first and ask questions later, but with the look in the Time Agent’s eye, they just do as they’re told.

It goes all right at first, John and Claris taking out two of the four aliens with their first shots, but then it doesn’t. Owen’s gun gets knocked aside in a tackle, and Ianto turns his back to the fight behind him to shoot the large alien in the back of the head. He just barely has the satisfaction of seeing the beast slump to the side onto the pavement, when he hears a frantic “Ianto!”

He’s tackled to the ground, feels a body too short to be Griffin covering him as a low shot goes off, the wrong pitch entirely to be any of Torchwood’s standard weapons. Then shots just the right pitch fire out, and he hears a thump that he assumes is the alien falling to the ground.

“John,” he grunts, “you can get off of me now.”

Silence.

“John?” Ianto repeats, feeling the edge of fear begin to take hold. When he once again doesn’t receive an answer, he shimmies out from under the other man, momentarily speechless when he sees the small, dark hole piercing thought the top left part of his chest.

He presses his hands against it, even though it’s not bleeding – God, why isn’t it bleeding? – as he screams, “OWEN! GRIFFIN! GET HERE NOW!”

Then he’s being shoved aside as his two doctors get to work, and Claris tugs him to his feet, saying how they have to move him, to go get the SUV, and he assumes he must obey, but all he can see is John’s pale face and slack mouth.

 

“Gwen? Anyone?” Ianto demands through the comm, “what’s happening? Are the civilians safe? Did you get the weevil?”

There’s another twenty seconds of radio silence, and he begins to feel fear clench in his gut. Lois hovers in the background, biting on her fingernails as she senses his worry.

“Ianto,” Claris greets, voice strained.

“Is everyone all right? What happened?”

“Yeah, sorry. The civilians are safe and the weevils are neutralized. Tosh got a bit banged around, but Griffin’s taking care of her while Owen hovers telling him he’s breathing wrong, or something. Gwen and Owen are fine. We’re coming in.”

Ianto lets out a breath of relief, before blinking and adding, “What about John?”

“He’s, um, he got distracted. I mean, he took out the weevil just fine, but then this girl walked by…”

Ianto snorts, because trying to get John even semi-house trained was turning out to be an experience. “I’ll take care of it. Can you all get the weevils in fine?”

“Yes, sir,” Claris confirms cheerfully, “Does it look like anything else is showing up tonight?”

Ianto quickly checks the Tosh’s Rift monitoring program before checking the CCTV cameras –all fifty of the teeny screens fit over five different monitors – that were from the most active places of Weevils and other oddities, and found both to be clean. “Nope.”

“Awesome. I was thinking after we get these beasts squared away, then we could all go out for a drink. Join us after you find John if you can?”

“You got it,” he says warmly, the good friendship he’d shared with both Griffin and Claris having deepened since he’d indoctrinated them into Torchwood. “Jones out.”

He turns to Lois, who’s smiling at him in relief. There are times that Ianto thinks she’s a bit too soft for this job, but, really, she’s just so good at it. Plus, she understands his color coding system. He would have hired her for that alone.

“I’m going to track down Hart,” he tosses the ear piece to her, and she catches it without fumbling. “You’re coordinating the team, and they plan to go out to drinks after. Join them, will you? Also, can you have Tosh do that thing where we all get a text message when the Rift is angry when she gets here, since the Hub’ll be empty?”

“I can do that, Mr. Jones.”

“Ianto,” he corrects absently, blinking as he fiddles with the sleeve of the jacket he’d just put on. “Can you really? You’re positive you can do it correctly?”

“Yes Sir,” she says, blushing, “There was that slow day last week, and Toshiko showed me how to run a couple of the programs.”

He grins, clapping her on the shoulder as he goes past, “It’s Ianto, Lois. And all right then, have fun. Mind sending me a list of programs you know how to run, and with what degree of confidence?” Something he’d made sure to emphasize within the team was that if was fine if you didn’t know something – but for fuck’s sake, don’t act like you do and get someone killed. So far, they’d all followed it pretty well.

“Yes,” she says, ignoring a form of address entirely this time, “Good luck with Mr. Hart!”

“I’ll need it,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

He finds Hart quickly, and waits inside the nearest bar where he’s pretty sure the man will go next, because while the sight of John taking the girl up against the alley wall had been appealing (and if she hadn’t been so obviously enjoying herself, Ianto might have been worried about how young she was) voyeurism wasn’t one if his kinks.

He’s about half way through his pint when he feels a pair of arms encircle his waist and moist breath against his ear, “Hey, you sexy thing you.”

Ianto snorts, but tilts his head so John can suckle at his neck. “I’m not letting you go on Youtube anymore. You find the oldest, weirdest songs.”

John laughs, moving up to lick his ear, “But the video of the skateboarding dog is hilarious.”

Ianto’s response is cut off by a hitched breath when John molds his body even closer to his and begins nibbling on his earlobe. “Not in public, John.”

“They have bathrooms,” he murmurs.

“I’m not letting you fuck me in a bathroom stall.”

“Fine,” he says, “you can fuck me in a bathroom stall.”

Ianto’s cock twitches at the visual, but he shakes his head. “No thank you.”

He can feel John’s pout against his neck, “You’re no fun.”

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, shifting to expose the column of his throat to John’s lips and teeth, “and then I’ll let you have some fun with me.”

He’d like to say they at least made it to one of their bedrooms, but it’d be a lie. Instead John’s naked on the couch with an equally bare Ianto on top of him, kissing fiercely as they rut against one another. “You going to fuck me?” John gasps, enough pre-come having leaked from both their cocks that their humping lacks any sort of uncomfortable dry burn.

“It’ll take too long,” Ianto groans, “You top, I’m still stretched out from lunch.”

“Don’t prepare me,” John counters, managing to maneuver them both to floor without any banged elbows or knees – the man has skill. Ianto didn’t have a rug in this part of the room until John moved in.

“When will you learn,” Ianto murmurs, writhing from his new position under John, “that I don’t get off on hurting you?”

John doesn’t say anything to that, but reaches down between them to quickly finger Ianto’s still stretched hole to make sure he’s ready, brushing up against his prostate just to hear the keening sound he makes. His cock is come slicked as he presses it into Ianto, kissing the juncture between the man’s neck and shoulder as he buries himself further into his body and Ianto groans. He wraps his legs around John’s hips, moving to meet his small thrusts.

He loves it when John makes love to him like this – pinning Ianto underneath him, and using only short, deep motions to get them both off. He runs his hand through John’s hair, pulling so he can press his mouth to his in quick, sloppy kisses, both of them too out of breath for anything prolonged. He uses his other hand to rub at the scar on his shoulder, nearly three weeks healed over from protecting Ianto from an alien’s laser gun. It’s what had shifted Ianto from ‘don’t trust’ to ‘trust’. Ianto can feels the stutters in John’s movements, knows he’s close, and whispers in his ear, “Come on, come for me, John,” the other man moans, and Ianto hooks an arm around his neck in an attempt to press their bodies even closer together, “it’s all right, I’ve got you, you’re close, so close, just –”

He’s cut off by the loud groan of the other man as he orgasms, his hips making little jerky motions that are just enough to pull Ianto over too, although he lets it out in a slow, long breath and a momentary squeezing of his legs and arms around John. They lay like that, all tangled up, for a moment, catching their breath, before John rolls them over so they’re on their side, each pillowed on their arms while using their free arms to wrap around each other. John’s gone soft, but he’s still inside Ianto, still connecting them through that organ.

They watch each other, easy and comfortable in this. “You know,” John says, moving scant millimeters forward to kiss Ianto’s nose, “if I wasn’t in love with Jack, I think I could be in love with you. I’m pretty sure I love you as much as I can love anyone else, anyway.”

Ianto’s laugh is soft, and this – this is why he and John work. Because they’re both in love with someone else, the same someone else even, but they can still make love with one another as opposed to fucking. He can talk to John in ways he’s never been able to with his Jack, and Ianto can easily see that if the immortal man had never entered either of their lives, then they’d have been happy together.

As is, Jack’s coming back at some point, and John can’t stay forever, but this time is theirs.

“I love you too,” Ianto says, returning the kiss on the mouth. “The team went out for drinks. We could probably still catch them for the last round or two.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” John returns, “they’ll be over for breakfast anyway.” He finishes rolling them over, so Ianto settles on top of him. “Let’s stay here instead.”

“Okay,” Ianto breaths, pressing soft kisses over John’s cheeks and forehead before getting to his lips and delving into a slow snog.

 

Ianto hears a knocking sound, and thinks if it was really that important then whoever it is wouldn’t be knocking. He also wants to kill them, because he has a pounding headache. He’s curled up around John and turns his head in the pillow to block out the noise. “I’m going to kill whoever that is,” said man mutters sleepily, wiggling his ass, which is pressed up against Ianto’s cock, because that really is his primary concern upon waking.

“Murder is bad,” Ianto says.

The banging against the door gets louder, and John growls, “It has its uses.” Ianto laughs, and the banging pauses.

“Ianto!” Griffin yells, “I’m assuming you’re in there with John, since you’re not in your own room. It’s seven, so I’m giving you a half hour for morning sex and getting dressed before I start fiddling with your coffee maker.” He bangs once more, as if making a point, before Ianto hears him walking away.

“So,” John drawls, grinding up against Ianto, “we have a half hour. I’m pretty sure you owe me a fucking from last night.”

Ianto grins and slides his hand down to tease at John’s hole, “Pass the lube.”

John scoffs, grabbing it off of the bedside table and handing it over, “Amateur.”

Ianto coats his fingers before allowing one to slip inside. “You’re going to be taking that back soon,” he warns.

“Good,” John growls, pressing himself down on Ianto’s fingers.

They make full use of their half hour.

 

Ianto sets up the coffee, and then gets the hell out of the kitchen to join the others that have thrown themselves about his living room.

“Morning,” Gwen says, still half asleep while Clara plays with her hair. Toshiko and Lois look up from the conversation they were having to wave.

Ianto pouts and falls on the couch, knee to hip pressed up against Gwen’s, “Am I girl?” He curls his body forward just a bit, his headache having spread to a throbbing, full body ache that he can’t explain.

That makes everyone take a pause, and Clara says, “Judging from the sounds coming from John’s bedroom this morning, I’d say no.”

Lois blushes while the other girls snort, and Ianto rolls his eye. “No. Owen, Griffin, John, and Rhys are in the kitchen cooking, while I’m out here with you girls. Not that I don’t love you all, but I’m feeling a loss of manliness.”

Either they were being eavesdropped on, or 51st century senses were at work, because John calls out in the campest voice he can manage – which is pretty flaming – “Oh darling! Come and take me in your manly arms! I’ll make you feel like a man tonight, baby.”

The others laugh, and Ianto’s been around both him and Jack too long to do more than raise an eyebrow and call back, “Bring me my coffee, woman!”

He’s actually a little surprised when a minute later John walks in, working to move and sashay his hips like he really is a girl. He perches himself daintily at the end of the sofa before holding out a steaming cup to Ianto. He takes it, amused, accepting the kiss that John leans down to give him. “I’d prefer the title of wife, honey – surely you’re the kind of boy who would make an honest woman out of me?”

Ianto laughs, “I’m pretty sure no one can make you an honest anything.” He reaches out to squeeze his hip, restraining a wince at the pain that shoots up his arm, “But if you were a girl, and not a fifty first century time agent, then I would marry you.”

John’s eyes unexpectedly soften, “If I were a girl, and not a fifty first century time agent, I’d let you.”

Ianto gives him a light shove, “Go back to where you belong, wife.” He watches his ass while he goes back to the kitchen, grinning when John looks over his shoulder at the last moment to send him a wink.

When he relaxes, all the girls are looking at him. “What?”

“You and John’s relationship hurts my brain,” Gwen confides, “I’m ecstatic that you’re happy, and that John’s killed a minimum of people, but you two make even less sense than you and –” She cuts herself off, shamefaced.

“I still feel the same way about Jack,” he says to her gently, something he never would have admitted to her before. But they’ve been leading Torchwood together for nearly four months now, and he’s quite in love with her in every way but the way he’s in love with Jack and John. “But he’s not here now, and John is. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

Gwen nods, and Clara asks, “So . . . who’s better in bed, Jack or John?”

Ianto blanches, “I’m not answering that.”

Tosh giggles, “Come on. What can it hurt?”

“Me,” Ianto mutters. The girls keep looking at him expectantly though, so he shoots a glance at the kitchen before admitting, “John gives better head, but that’s all I’m willing to say.”

Ianto rolls his eyes at the triumphant shout, and the other three men’s groans. “Didn’t need to know that, mate,” Rhys says, sticking his head out of the kitchen, “Also, if any of you still have the stomach for it, breakfast is ready.”

The girls laugh, and go in to help carry the platters to Ianto’s dining room. John ducks out too, pulling Ianto into a quick kiss, and the Welshman knows he grimaced that time. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Sore,” Ianto says, letting his head drop on John’s shoulder.

“Did I wear you out last night?” he mocks, but raises a hand to dig his fingers in slow circles along the base of Ianto’s neck.

Ianto has to bite back a groan, for more than one reason. “No, it’s like every one of my muscles has been beaten with a mallet.”

John hums, “Get checked out by one of your over-qualified medics then, dumbass.”

Ianto snorts, “If I still feel like this tomorrow, I will.”

The other man must be satisfied with that, because he steps away from Ianto and nudges his ribs lightly, “Do I really give better head?”

Ianto laughs, finally returning John’s kiss with one of his own. “Yes. Not that Jack’s not fantastic, as you well know, but that swirly thing, that you do when I’m not even sure how you manage to breathe? Beautiful.”

John smirks all through breakfast, and the table trades their sexapades because, well, Torchwood. Owen doesn’t surprise him, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever look at Lois or Rhys the same way again.

 

Because, for once, everyone is actually doing their work, when Tosh makes a sound halfway between a whine and a growl, the remainder of the crew looks up from their own work to stare at the Japanese woman.

“Tosh?” Griffin asks. It’s then that Ianto notices he and Owen have blown off paperwork in favor of playing the medical version of Trivial Pursuit. He could yell at them for it, but if he’s learned anything, it’s to pick his battles.

“The Rift,” she explains, frustrated, “these readings don’t make any sense.”

John pushes himself from his desk, rolling over to bump Tosh away from her own station. “Oh,” he says. “No, they make sense. The Rift is degrading.”

Ianto doesn’t know what that means, but considering the horrified look on the Japanese woman’s face, he’s not going to like it. “So, that’s not good.”

John shrugs, “Could be worse.”

“How?” Tosh demands, face sallow.

“Well, it could be collapsing in on itself. Now, you’ll just have one really fucked up piece of Earth where a whole lot of things don’t make sense, as opposed to your planet becoming a black hole.”

This actually seems to mollify Tosh.

“Excuse me,” Owen says, “but for those of us without a doctorate in quantum physics, or whatever, care to explain?”

“The Rift is becoming more unstable,” Tosh says, “This means that more things will go through, as well as taken, and generally all Rift energy will expand, so that those lovely things we know as the laws of nature won’t apply all that much.”

“You get most of them wrong anyway,” John offers. He, for one, doesn’t seem concerned about the situation, but considering it’s John, Ianto doesn’t take that to mean anything.

“We do not!” Tosh says, and Griffin snorts.

John just smirks, and Ianto’s given up on this nice productive day ending in childish squabbling when the other man’s wrist strap beeps. Frowning, he flips it open. Whatever he sees there causes his face to tighten.

“Everything all right?” Ianto asks.

“No,” he answers, “I have to leave.”

“What? Why?” Ianto asks, but the answer comes to him as soon as he’s done.

“Right,” John says, and leans over to kiss a confused Tosh smack on the mouth, “You’re wasted on this century. I would have loved to see what that mind of yours could have accomplished in my time.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” she returns with.

“Me too,” he says. He then bounds over to Owen and Griffin, both of whom turn their faces away before he can kiss them. John just rolls his eyes before grabbing them both in a hug, “Thanks for saving my life. It’s been fun.”

“Thanks for being willing to die for Ianto,” Owen says in a rare moment of seriousness. Griffin makes a noise of agreement.

“Anytime,” John says, although it’s directed at Ianto, who’s moved from his desk to meet John halfway, kissing the man they same way he’d kissed the Jack from the future the last time. When they pull apart, they only go so far that they’re forehead to forehead.

“I love you,” Ianto tells him, wondering how it is his heart can stand to lose all these people he loves – Lisa, Jack, John.

“I love you,” John confirms, “see you on the flip side.” Responding to Ianto’s eyeroll with one more kiss, he programs his destination into his wrist strap before disappearing in a swirl of fizzling golden light.

When Ianto finds the energy to look at the rest of the team, they smile and Owen offers, “Team bar night?”

“Alcohol doesn’t solve anything,” Ianto says.

Owen blinks, unconvinced, “Team bar night?”

Tosh adds, “The Rift should be quiet tonight.”

Ianto looks to Griffin, who says, “Gwen and Clara are always up for an excuse to put on makeup and high heels, like they’re actually girls, or something.”

He finally cracks a grin at that, giving in, “All right, team bar night it is.”

 

It had taken a few days for the team to get used to rhythm of working together again without John, but they managed well enough. The girls had been especially sad at the news, as much as double edged sword as he could be at times.

Lois had probably summed it up best with: “Well, yes, he was a menace to society, but he could also be incredibly kind too, if the mood struck him. Torchwood can never have too much kindness, hmm?”

Now, it’s been a little over a week and it’s somewhere around eight at night when Gwen and Ianto have squirreled themselves away from the rest of the team.

“You’re sure?” Gwen says, eyes wide as she clutches her cup of steaming coffee perhaps a bit too tightly.

“Mostly,” he sighs, “It’s the reason John left, because he could sense Jack’s temporal signature approaching. But I don’t know how far out he had to leave in order to keep a clean timestream – it could be another year before Jack shows up, or it could be tomorrow. Besides, it only means Jack will be back on earth – not that he’ll come back to us.”

Gwen’s face darkens, and she takes a sip of the coffee that Ianto knows has to scald her tongue. “If so, we will track him down and shoot him.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ianto rebukes.

“Don’t I?” Gwen challenges. Ianto raises and eyebrow, and she deflates, “You’re right, I don’t.”

He reaches over to settle his hand atop hers, causing some tension to leak out of her. Before he can do anything more, an alarm goes off. He sighs, “Maybe that’s him now.”

“Blowfish sighting!” Owen calls up to them, “Let’s get moving, o’ fearless leaders!”

Gwen cracks a grin, “Or not.”

 

Ianto senses him before he sees him, and he wants to weep.

Jack’s mind isn’t damaged, so much as it’s . . . tired. There are deep, painful welts across it, but no structural damage, and more than he wants to kill Jack, he wants to wrap him in his arms and delve into his mind, sooth it the best he can and take away all the hurt that isn’t showing on the older man’s face.

They’re all staring at him, and Ianto wonders if anyone but him can see the anxiety behind Jack’s grin. Gwen, probably.

“Hello?” Lois’s voice says in his ear, “is everyone there? You’re all okay, right?”

Ianto shakes himself out of his stare, tapping his Bluetooth, “We’re fine. We’re coming back. All five of us.”

“Five?” she echoes.

“Captain Harkness is back,” he says, eyes still running over said man, ignoring her sharp gasp, “Jones out.”

“Hold on,” Owen protests, like the rest of them eyes glued to Jack, “How do we know this is really Jack?”

The older man wavers under this suspicion, but Ianto says, “It’s Jack.”

“How do you-” Tosh cuts herself off, then gestures to her head with a swirly motion.

Ianto’s lips twitch, “Yes. I’d know him anywhere.” Any when.

“Someone want to fill me in on what’s going on?” Jack asks.

“Later,” Gwen decides, biting her lip, “we have to take care of this first.”

 

When they get back to the Hub, Lois has hot chocolate waiting for them all, because she does with this sweet drink what Ianto does with coffee. They accept it all gratefully, dumping the Blowfish in autopsy to be dealt with later.

Lois hesitates in handing one to Jack, the mug the bright blue one that no one ever uses. He sends her a million watt smile, sliding his fingers over hers as he accepts the mug. “And who might you be?”

She blushes, sitting down in her seat in the semi-circle of desks that the Main Hub is now arranged in. They’ve all done the same, pulling out chairs and leaning against desks so they’re arranged in one corner, with them on one side and Jack on the other. Judging by the tight turn of Jack’s mouth, the significance of the arrangement doesn’t escape him.

“General Support, sir,” she answers.

Jack’s eyes flit over to Ianto, “And you’ve been promoted to field agent with,” he skims the rest of the team, “Gwen as director?”

Owen snorts, “Blind as ever.” Ianto glares at Owen, but the older man continues on undeterred, “Ianto’s director, and Gwen’s his second. Not like Suzie was your second, mind, but a proper co-leader.”

Jack’s total surprise at this shouldn’t mean anything – he’d wanted to Jack to overlook his abilities, it had been his goal after all – but the raised eyebrows and skeptical expression sting none the less. “Ianto? Not that he’s not amazing, sexy, and wonderful, but he doesn’t really have the experience.” He pauses at the disbelieving looks the team is giving him, even Lois. Perhaps especially Lois. “What?”

“Ignoring the bullshit within that sentence,” says Gwen, “and I do? Bloody hell Jack, I hadn’t even been here a year when you buggered off. Didn’t help when UNIT stormed in, trying to take over the base since we didn’t have a high enough ranked officer, did it?”

A look of guilt flashes across Jack’s face, and Ianto wants to let them all continue, because God if Jack doesn’t deserve it, but Ianto’s never been one to kick a man when he’s down and he isn’t about to start now. “Guys,” he says, and they all shoot him dirty looks, but Gwen shrugs and backs off.

Jack takes a sip of his hot chocolate – that he doesn’t make some sort of pornographic noise should tell everyone how off balance he is – but before they can talk about anything more, one of the many alarms go off.

 

When they burst into the bar, the sight they’re greeted with is quite possible the last one they’d been expecting. Considering they’re Torchwood, that’s saying something.

“John?”

The man – still bloody gorgeous but at least two decades older – turns, and the harsh, bitter expression he had gifted Jack with melts into one of genuine delight, “Ianto.”

Jack looks between the two of them, eyebrow cocked. He starts when John stalks toward the Welshman, “Hey, don’t you da-” His words die in his throat when John sweeps Ianto into tight embrace and passionate kiss. It’s nothing like the one he and John had shared, instead it’s a powerful, gentle longing. He feels as if this should have been how he’d greeted Ianto, and not with a shot Blowfish and a cocky grin.

“Did you miss me?” John asks, grin rakish.

Ianto snorts, “It’s not even been a month.”

John gives it a beat before repeating, “Did you miss me?”

“Yeah,” Ianto breaths, “I missed you.” Then he’s being kissed again, and fucking hell if John hasn’t gotten even better at this with age. Under different circumstances, he might have just let this John fuck him in the bathroom stall.

Jack looks at the team, who’s holstered their weapons, and staring at him with open hostility, although Tosh’s eyes keep sliding to the right so her face flushes a bright red. “So,” he says, trying to remain calm, which is extremely hard to do with both of his ex-lovers making out in front of him. One half of him is suppressing incredulous anger, and the other kinda wants to get them naked. “Anyone want to explain to me what the fuck is going on?”

“Peons,” John finally greets, he and Ianto drawing closer so that he can plant a wet one on Gwen’s cheek and wink saucily at both Owen and Tosh. All three of them roll their eyes. “Long time no see.”

“For you, maybe,” Owen snorts, “You’ve gotten old.”

John scowls, self consciously brushing his fingers against the lines starting to show on his face. There are ways to hide that now, but if he were to get something fixed, he’d first have to admit that something needed fixing, and, just, no. Ianto tugs his hand away, intertwining his fingers with John’s. “You’re lovely – Owen’s just jealous.”

“Of banging Ianto?” he leers, “Come now, it’s well known that he’s the office slut.”

Tosh and Gwen stare at him.

“Within the office,” he amends, “I’ve only slept with one co-worker. Jack and John don’t get to compete, based on the fact they’re total whores.”

Jack wonders if he should feel offended, except that John looks positively gleeful at this description, and Ianto’s lips are twitching from holding in laughter, which is a sight that nearly takes his breath away.

“Anyway,” John sighs dramatically, “I’m not just here for a social visit,” he eyes Jack and Ianto meaningfully, and the amount of effort all three men make, individually, to not suggest a threesome is immense, “but I actually need some help with something.”

“Hold on,” Jack holds up his palm, as if his words weren’t enough and he needs a physical motion to accompany them. “What’s going on here? How do you guys know each other?”

John smirks, “Well, I met Ianto here when you got sent on the bloody two year mission, and I tried tracing your time signature. Unfortunately, Torchwood One picked me up, and called in lovely Ianto here.”

Ianto’s tensed, but John doesn’t know why, although the rest of the team do and make a conscious effort not to meet Jack’s eyes. He’s so intent upon John that he doesn’t even notice. “Why? Because he was the leader of the Torchwood Three, and I wasn’t here?”

John cocks an eyebrow, “You were here. That’s why I was locked up – they couldn’t let me mess up the timestream. They called in Ianto because he was Co-Director of One, dumbass.”

Jack freezes, and it’s then that John realizes that maybe he’s missed something, because his young lover looks nauseous and Jack’s face has gone pale. “What?”

“This is neither the time nor the place,” Ianto says firmly, although he’s speaking to the empty air next to Jack rather than to him. “We’ll discuss it later. First, let’s deal with John.”

“You were leading One!” Jack repeats, eyebrows slanted with his scowl. “What the fuck? Your personnel file said you were a junior researcher. You told me you were a junior researcher.”

“Jack,” Owen says, curling his hand over his forearm, “you’re hardly one to talk about secrets and lies. Besides, Ianto’s right. Now’s not the right time.”

“So you knew?” Jack demands, “Did all of you?” His gaze skitters to Gwen and Tosh.

“After you all left, Ianto told us the truth. He had to, in order to stop UNIT from taking over the Hub,” Tosh says.

“I’ve known since the beginning,” Owen says, arms crossed over his chest and chin tilted up in a clear challenge.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack asks, despair quiet in his voice. He’d come to these people, to his team, whom he’d loved and trusted and thought he knew so well. He can’t stand the thought that he might not have known them as well as he thought he did.

“You didn’t need to know,” Owen says, softening, “and I trusted Ianto.” The more than I trusted you hangs unspoken in the air, but Ianto’s pretty sure he and Jack are the only ones who hear it.

“Not that this isn’t fascinating,” John drawls, eyes flinty, “but I did come here for more reason than to see all your pretty faces.”

“Sorry John,” Ianto turns from Jack to the look his lover in the eye, ignoring the low burn of concern that’s in his gaze even after all this time. “How can we help?”

“There’s this woman . . .”

 

Jack is furious, absolutely bloody livid. This doesn’t stop him from pressing Ianto against the nearest vertical surface the second that they’re alone, molding their bodies together from hips to lips. They’re alone in the Hub, having sent the others out to retrieve John’s toy. Ianto had expected more violence and less kissing, but he isn’t about to complain.

“You lied to me,” he growls, biting and sucking a hickey into existence onto Ianto’s neck that the younger man wouldn’t normally allow.

“All’s fair in love and war,” he gasps, digging his hands into Jack’s hips. His heart is going to pound out his chest at this rate, and it’s Jack and god how he’s missed this man, the love of his life, the man whom he’d die and kill and live for if given half an opportunity to do so.

Jack shoves a thigh between Ianto’s legs, “Which is this?”

“Both, knowing us,” he moans, feeling his cock strain against his trousers at the delightful fiction. Jack stills against him then, his whole body pressing Ianto against the wall and his harsh breath drifting against Ianto’s ear.

“You lied to me,” Jack breathes.

“You lied to me,” Ianto counters, “you hid yourself from me, underestimated me, were blind even when you were trying so hard to see. You left.”

“I see you,” Jack whispers, pressing light kisses against his jaw.

Ianto sighs, “No, you don’t, but that’s my fault as much as it’s yours.” He shifts a hand from Jack’s hip to tangle in his hair, “I have a lot of secrets Jack. Some that I’ll never be able to tell you.”

“Okay,” Jack plants a kiss on the corner of Ianto’s mouth. “That works both ways.”

“They’ll make you angry,” Ianto pants, “very, very, angry. We’re going to fight about this. A lot.”

“I’m angry now,” Jack responds, finally restarting his slow languid thrusts against Ianto. “That doesn’t change that I came back. For you.”

“You came back for all of us,” Ianto says, swallowing back a moan.

“Yeah,” the older man agrees, “but you’re the only one I dreamt about doing this to.”

Ianto doesn’t have clue about where this leaves them, knows when Jack’s brought in on some of the secrets that Ianto’s kept from him – not all, never all – then he’s not going to be happy. However, that’s not going to stop him from enjoying the sex that Jack is so obviously intent on having.

He looks over Jack’s shoulder, and feels his cock twitch even as he lets out a long, dirty moan. John is leaning against the doorframe, pants unbuttoned and his dick pulled out, long and thick as he pumps his fist.

Jack stills against him, and John keeps Ianto’s gaze as he walks over to mould himself against Jack’s back, breathing into his ear, “Room for one more?”

Jack swallows hard, wavering. He loves John almost as much as he hates him, and he knows that while he was here with his team, he and Ianto had some form of relationship, but he’s not sure if this is the best of ideas. But when John leans over him to press his mouth against Ianto’s in a filthy kiss and starts humping against Jack’s ass, the decision is clearly made for him.

“I want Ianto to fuck me,” the Time Agent licks the shell of John’s ear.

The mental image draws a whimper out of Jack, one that’s pulled into a moan when Ianto bites the lobe of his other ear and says, “And while I’m at it, why don’t you fuck me?”

They somehow maneuver so it’s John that’s pressed naked against the wall of Jack’s office, Ianto and him sharing slow kisses as the younger man plunges his fingers into John’s hole, stretching and pulling the muscle there. Jack’s stroking his cock as he watches, and he knows he should just be an observer for the moment, but the sight of Ianto’s fingers disappearing in and out of John’s ass has him so hard it’s almost painful.

Ianto’s focuses on the slow exploration of John’s mouth, of his digits moving in and out of the man who’s older, yes, but still his John. Because of this he nearly jumps a foot in the air when he feels Jack pulling his cheeks apart, and his tongue pressing around and into his anus. He whimpers and jams his fingers so hard into the John that the other man shakes with it. “What-”

“Jack’s,” Ianto pants, kissing his collarbone, “tongue, he’s,” he cuts himself with another moan, fingers aiding tongue in Jack’s determination to split Ianto open.

“Dear god,” John groans, “fuck me, now.”

He twists, somehow managing it so one moment he’s pressed face to face with Ianto, and the next he’s got his back to him, still up against the wall. “Jack,” Ianto says, “stop, just for a moment, so I can-”

The tongue leaves his ass, but the fingers continue working him with slow steady motions, “Well,” Jack rumbles, “go on.” Ianto almost feels as if this is a punishment of sorts, and if so, he’s not going to complain.

Ianto nods, and lines his cock up with John’s ass before pushing all the way to the hilt in one smooth, practiced motion, and the man practically screams, his whole body trembling with the force of the invasion. “Good?” Ianto asks, dropping a kiss onto John’s shoulder.

“Fucking hell, Ianto,” he chokes, “fuck me, don’t just stand there.”

He does as bid, thrusting into John with long, languid movements. The fingers penetrating him slide out, leaving him feeling empty for the half second it takes Jack to replace them with his dick. His violation of Ianto is slower, but no less arousing, and for a moment, Ianto can’t even remember his own name, just knows John’s high keening accompanying the clench of muscle around his cock and Jack’s dick burying itself in his ass.

The slow pace the three of them try to maintain is broken, and then they’re rutting into each other with abandon, Jack laying hot, messy kisses to the side of his neck. Ianto’s the first to come, gasping as he shoots his load into John, who finds that that pushes him over the edge as well, moaning as Ianto’s body practically collapses on top of him.

Jack’s still going, although the hitches in his breathing let Ianto and John know he’s not far behind. He’s fucking Ianto’s loose, spent body roughly, and this causes his overly sensitive dick to brush up against John’s prostate with each of Jack’s frantic thrusts, so that Ianto and John ride out their orgasms with almost painful pleasure.

Jack finally comes with scream, pounding Ianto’s ass so that his hole milks Jack’s dick through it, until all he can manage are painful breathes and small sharp movements that cause stuttering cries to fall out of Ianto’s mouth.

When he stills, all three of them spend the next minutes trying to relearn how to breath, and for a few minutes no one feels the need to break this odd, comfortable silence with chatter. Of course, when someone does, it’s John.

“You two are kind of fucked up,” he informs the ceiling. Jack and Ianto throw him twin acerbic looks, but don’t bother protesting. Before, Jack would have considered his relationship with Ianto to be relatively cut and dry, but not anymore.

“Pot, kettle, black,” Ianto says tiredly, and John laughs, twisting his head to kiss Ianto. After, the younger man glances at Jack, unsure of what he’s hoping is on the other man’s face, but the besotted, gentle expression that seeing him and John together elicits certainly works. Ianto snorts, a grin stretching over his face.

“What?” Jack asks.

“Nothing, it’s just,” he looks quickly back and forth between John and Jack, “I have a type.”

John laughs, and a moment later, Jack follows, eyes crinkling in amusement. Ianto would like to stay here forever, in this little pocket of time when Jack forgets his anger and betrayal – and it was a betrayal, Ianto can spin it however he likes but that doesn’t change anything – but the rest of the world is clearly not working on his time schedule, because his phone makes that angry beeping sound that means that if he doesn’t answer right away then some people/places are likely to be blown up.

Groaning, he extracts himself from his place between Jack and John (symbolism much?) and finds his phone in the interior pocket of his jacket, pulling it out and flipping it open regardless of his state of naked, well fucked, and come splattered.

“Jones,” he answers, and he loves being up high enough that he can answer with his common last name only, and they know it’s him.

“Director,” a thin voice answers, and Ianto recognizes it as Siobhan, in the IT department. She’d been walking street corners when he’d snatched her up, because she was brilliant in a way that he knows Tosh and John both could appreciate.

“Siobhan,” he greets, liking the instinctually pleased sound she makes at him addressing her correctly, “what seems to be the problem?”

He doesn’t start at the warm, damp flannel running over the back of his thighs, because John has done this before. He looks down to see his lover’s dirty blond head as he sits on his knees before Ianto, gently cleaning him of sweat and come. Ianto uses his free hand to card his fingers through John’s hair, and the older man leans forward to press a kiss to Ianto’s hip. Possibly the biggest difference between Jack and John sexually was that while Jack would lie comfortably in their mess until Ianto mustered the energy to take care of it, John reveled in this small piece of aftercare, in this last act of letting the other person know that he cared, that he found them special and important enough to spend some of his precious time on them.

“Well, um, there’s kind of a big blue slime that’s oozing out of the mainframe, and you know, almost every electrical thing in the Tower. Which is a lot. And Director Kale is locked in her office. She’s fine, if the litany of swear words is anything to go by.”

Ianto’s lips twitch, “Are there green speckles in the slime?”

“No I don’t think – oh! Yes, yes there is! They’re very teeny tiny though.”

“That’s all right,” he assures, clean and dry and glancing over to see John giving Jack the same treatment he’d just presented to Ianto, and the older man’s gaze kept flickering from him to John. “It just means it’s young.”

“. . . It’s alive, sir?”

“Unless it turns yellow, yes. Did you guys get a bronze canister recently?”

“How should I know? I’m not archives!” She pauses, “Sir.”

Ianto bites his lip to contain his laughter. He loves the rude ones, and this isn’t a major threat, plus Lillian is locked in her office, which is hilarious, “Can you patch me through to someone who is in archives?”

“Um,” she draws the syllable out, “I can try sir. But, you know, moving green speckled blue goo is oozing out of everything, so. You know.”

“Indeed,” Ianto intones with a solemnity he doesn’t feel.

There are some worrying clicks over the line, and then the man who took over his job shouts through, “IANTO! There are not enough contamination bags for all this shit!”

Ianto brings his hand to his mouth, biting into his thumb to keep from laughing, “Did a bronze canister fall through the sky recently?”

“I don’t know; hold on,” Ianto’s not looking at John or Jack, because if he does, no matter the expression on their faces, he’s sure his tenuous control is going to snap, “Yep, looks like. If I smash it, will this crap go away?”

“Do not smash it,” he instructs, “just find the purple swirly design and trace it with your index finger.” There’s a beat, and then Will shouts triumphantly, “So it worked?”

“You know it did,” Will crows, “Thanks Ianto, Director, uh, Sir. The goo is heading back to the canister, and if we ignore it, will it stay there?”

“No,” Ianto finally finds his trousers, slipping them on and leaving his pants because they’re beyond help at this point, “but if you post it to Cardiff through the usual channels, then we’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t I get to know? Sir,” Will asks, trying not to sound like he’s pouting, but not doing a great job of it.

“Later,” Ianto assure, “send me an email, and if I don’t respond get Siobhan to send some sort of virus; that’ll remind me.”

“. . . Didn’t Dr. Sato get really mad last time? And Mr. Hart sent one back that re-alphabetized our classified files.”

John laughs and Ianto has turned his back to them both, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder to shrug on his shirt – pale pink, Burberry, and more than slightly creased – and he slips the ivory buttons through the holes. “It’ll be fine.”

Will hums, “I don’t believe you, Sir, but I’m sending the canister through once all the oozy sticky stuff is gone. Thank you for your help, Director Jones.”

“You’re welcome,” Ianto says, trying to remember where he last saw his socks. Or shoes. “Good luck.” He flicks it off, slipping it into his trouser pocket, and turning to face his lovers. They have both managed to get fully dressed. John’s eyes are soft, but Jack’s face could be carved from stone, it’s so painfully blank.

“I know,” John says, “it’s like looking about three thousand years in the future.” Jack doesn’t move, and he adds, “Or a mirror, in your case, I suppose.”

“What?” Ianto says, unconsciously crossing his arms.

“You’re good at it,” Jack says, eyes hooded, “I didn’t know that.”

Ianto blinks, and when nothing more is forthcoming looks to John to make sense of that. The Time Agent says, “You’re the teaboy, now aren’t you? Field agent if necessary, capable, caring, smart, and sexy as all hell, but you’re not a leader. Jack’s never seen you as a leader.”

“And you?” Ianto’s gaze stutters back to Jack, even as he addresses the other man.

“I’ve never known you as anything but,” he answers, and Ianto doesn’t know why that satisfies him, but it does.

He steps toward Jack, pausing when there’s less than a hands width between them, and raises a hand to cup Jack’s cheek. His expression hasn’t thawed, but for the first time Ianto notices the twitch at his touch, and he skims over his mind and says, “Oh, Jack, what happened?” If possible, his expression becomes even more closed off at that, so Ianto shakes his head, rising on his tip toes to press his lips to Jack’s temple. “Never mind. Jack, I lied to you, and I’m sorry, but I had to.”

“Why?” the hard lines around his mouth have slackened with that simple kiss.

Ianto scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip before answering, “Because I wanted you to trust me, to give me a chance. I wanted to be with you Jack, without anything from our past getting in the way. I was being selfish.”

At some point, John had left the room, and Ianto doesn’t know who taught him tact in the years since he’s seen him last, but he’s grateful for it. This is hard enough with only Jack as his audience.

“Our past?” Jack echoes.

Ianto slides his hand from Jack’s jaw to press his fingers against the dip in the side of his temple, saying, “It’s easier if I just show you.” He delves into Jack’s mind, his Jack, not some other version that’s lived centuries after his death, and even though it’s battered, the sense of home he gets here makes him want to curl around Jack’s mind and never leave, never let go, because he likes it here. He can’t though, so he finds those memories obscured and hidden and sheds light on them, gives them back to Jack in crystal clear clarity that he wouldn’t otherwise have.

When he separates from him, there are tears on Jack’s face, and Ianto doesn’t know why, but he wants to, wants to know all the things that makes Jack cry so he can either fix them or kiss, love, keep Jack until they don’t hurt so much anymore.

“You,” Jack says, opening his eyes.

“Me,” he says.

Jack just stares at him a long moment, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have given you a job in a second flat.”

Ianto slips one of Jack’s hands into one of his own, and is relieved when Jack allows it, “Because you would have given me a job in a second flat. I was so bloody obsessed with you Jack, and I wanted you to want me because you wanted me, and not because you knew what I could do.”

There’s a long moment of them staring at each other, and then Jack pushes Ianto up against another wall so he can kiss him for real, only this time isn’t desperate or rushed, but slow and steady. It feels like Jack’s making love to Ianto’s mouth, and the younger man almost wants to cry. When Jack pulls back, he’s still close enough that their panting breaths intermingle with each other. “I’m very angry that you’ve kept this from me.”

“You don’t seem it.”

Jack nuzzles Ianto’s neck, “That’s because I’m also really fucking happy to be back home, with my team, with you, and that I’ve found you. I thought you must have died at Canary Warf, since I didn’t know anything about you. If you think you were obsessed, you should have seen me. I’m pissed as all hell that I’ve been kept out of the loop, but we’ll deal with that later.” Something seems to occur to the older man, and the grip he has on Ianto’s hips becomes painfully tight. “You can understand me, can’t you?” he asks in Boeshane.

“Of course, Jack,” Ianto murmurs, “you gave me this language. I still find both it and you as beautiful as ever.”

Jack kisses him again, and oh, it’s different than how he was kissed before he left, and it’s wonderful, but what if Jack really is only reacting to Ianto and his psi rating, to how he’d helped Jack in the past and how he’ll help him in the future?

Jack does something with his tongue, and Ianto almost doesn’t care why it’s changed, except for where he really really does, where he wants to possess Jack as thoroughly as Jack possesses him, however unknowingly.

But he thinks back to just before Jack had gone, and he’d been kissed like this then too, like Jack loved him, and maybe it really has nothing to do with his abilities. Maybe Jack does love him just as his future incarnations had assured, and maybe it has nothing to do with what Ianto can do, but everything to do with who Ianto is.

“Excuse me,” John says, and they break apart, both of them turning to their lover, “hate to interrupt, because it really is such a pretty sight, but your team has found what is hopefully my diamond, so, let’s go.”

Jack kisses Ianto once more before they follow John.

 

When they meet the team, they’re holding something lumpy, slimy, and green which makes John crow and delight and Jack’s eyes go wide. Ianto frankly thinks that it looks like it belongs in the sewer, and judging from the grimaces on the girls’ and Owen’s faces, they agree with him.

“Oh my darling,” John croons, as Owen practically throws the thing at the other man, “come to Papa, baby. Your Mama and I are going to live filthy, disgustingly rich lives because of you.” He scans it with his wrist strap, and it shimmers before it’s sent to another place, another time. He then turns to his lovers, a bittersweet smile on his face. He moves to Jack, saying goodbye with all the same violent passion he’d greeted with, and when he’s moves from Jack to Ianto he holds him, taking the smaller man in his arms and pulling him flush against him, burying his face in his hair.

“You’ve gone soft in your old age,” Ianto murmurs, clinging equally tight. It’s even harder to say goodbye to this John than the other one – he has no idea the life this man has in store from him, nothing gleamed from Jack’s mind.

“I’ve always been soft for you,” John returns, breathing in the other man’s scent. Twenty first century or no, he still smells delicious. “I love you.”

They both hear Jack’s sharp intake of breath, and both ignore it. Ianto pushes himself up just enough so their mouths meet in a chaste, sweet kiss. “I love you too. I’m going to miss you. I hope this woman of yours makes you happy.”

John kisses his forehead, “She does. She will. You’d love her Ianto – I wish you could meet her. I wish I could keep you.”

Ianto says it so low that only Jack with his ridiculous future senses will pick it up, “If I belonged to myself, I’d give me to you.”

Jack chokes, and John’s eyes widen. If I wasn’t already promised to someone else, I’d marry you. “I’d take you,” John rumbles, voice rough, and this time their kiss is neither gentle nor chaste.

When John’s form finally slips away in a buzz of golden lights, Ianto becomes aware of Owen on one side, and Gwen on the other, with Tosh hovering on the side. Gwen’s got her arm wrapped around his waist, and Owen’s leaning on his shoulder, “I hate to say it mate, but this is becoming a bit of a pattern with you.”

Ianto laughs and it’s not a happy sound, “You have no idea.”

“Sleepover?” Tosh says, then glances over to where Jack is staring at them wide-eyed, “if you want.”

“He has to meet everyone at some point,” he says tiredly, “give them all a call.”

“Clara is going to be pissed she missed everything,” Owen says.

Tosh smirks, “Lois probably filled her in.”

Ianto can already feel the tension draining from him, and his smile isn’t nearly as forced as it was a minute ago. “Why don’t you guys head down and I’ll be there in a bit.”

Jack flinches when as one the team turns to stare at him, but when they realize what they’ve done, a flush rises to their cheeks, even Owen’s. Gwen is the first to dart to the immortal’s side, standing on her tip toes and using his shoulder for balance so that she can kiss Jack on the cheek, “You are never, ever allowed to go anywhere without telling one of us ever again.”

Tosh, on his other side, grasps one of his big paw hands in between her own and says, “It hasn’t been the same without you Jack. We’ve missed you.”

“What they said,” Owen grumbles, burying his hands in his jacket pockets.

Jack’s eyes are wide, darting over to each of them and then back again. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out.

“We’ll see you at Ianto’s soon,” Owen says, and Gwen gives him another kiss and Tosh another squeeze before they’re walking off, linked arm and arm. They’re amused voices and laughter get fainter and fainter until they can’t be heard at all.

Ianto slips his hand in Jack’s and jumps at the unexpected bolt of sadness that comes though, “We’re not better off without you. We became a better team when we had to draw together, get on without you, but that doesn’t change that we’ll always, always, prefer to have you with us.”

“How often do you read my mind?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound angry.

“As often as I can. I like it.” Jack flinches again, and Ianto murmurs, “Even now. I’ve seen your head in worse shape, if not in quite as much pain before. You don’t have to feel ashamed. Not with me.”

Jack swallows, and the loose grip of interlocking fingers he’d been sharing with Ianto tightens painfully, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ianto doesn’t acknowledge the pain radiating from his hand, “Okay.” Jack will seek him out to soothe his mind at some point – even broken, Ianto had done the same. Just being near Jack made the constant pressure in his head easier to bear, made everything easier to bear.

“Did you mean what you said to John?”

Ianto blinks, thrown for a moment, before answering, “Of course.”

Jack blinks rapidly, and Ianto can feel the swell of negative emotions welling up in Jack, but doesn’t know why. “Whom is it that yourself belongs to?”

“Oh, Jack,” Ianto pulls their joined hands up so he can kiss the back of Jack’s hand, wondering at how he fell for such a moron, “It’s you. I’d be John’s, except that I’m already yours, whether you want me or not.”

Jack’s speechless for a moment, and Ianto revels in it, before Jack’s mouth descends upon his, and god, how could he have ever doubted that Jack loved him, that he was special and cared for. Does he really need words, when the way Jack is holding him and kissing him tells him all he needs to know?

No, no he does not.

Jack breaks away, pressing them forehead to forehead as he breathes out, “I want you.”

“Good,” Ianto says, and kisses him again.


	10. Part X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so this is it for a while, hoped you like it
> 
> if you want, you can stalk/irritate me on my tumblr
> 
> shanastoryteller.tumblr.com

Part X

"Ianto?"

The Welshman looks up, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. "Tosh," he says, "how can I help you?" She bites her lip, and Ianto feels more awake. He settles back in his chair as he smiles at her, "He's doing better. Not well, mind you, but better. Jack's been banned from the house though, so that's been interesting."

Tosh giggles, and then claps her hand to her mouth, horrified. She lowers her hand, "Sorry."

"It's all right," Ianto glances over at the expense reports, but can't make himself care. He'll send them to Lois later to fine comb - they're nearly done as is. "It's all right to laugh. We can't put our lives on hold just because Owen is dead, no more than we can when anyone else dies."

Tosh leans against the doorframe, lips curled into a near sneer, "He's not dead, though, is he? Not really."

"No," Ianto agrees, "not really." He lets the silence draw out before asking, "Do you wish he was?" While he waits for her answer, Ianto notices they're spending an awful lot on clothing - which might be helped if they all stopped running around chasing aliens wearing Burberry, Prada, and the ilk, but honestly he's not willing to stop that. He likes his suits.

"Does he?" she asks, so quiet he nearly misses it.

He looks to her again, sees the death grip she has on the door frame and smiles, "No. Undeadness suits him really. He's getting used to it, just like we all are. Okay?"

She nods before going back downstairs, and Ianto tries to concentrate on his work, but instead all he can think is that Tosh should be able to tell when he's lying by now.

 

Ianto doesn't even twitch when Jack's hands settle on his shoulders, which should show more than anything else how bloody exhausted he is. Jack starts rubbing them, pressing his fingers into the tights knots of muscle. Ianto groans, putting down his pen and letting his head drop forward. Jack smiles, "Long day?"

"Long couple of months," he groans, reaching behind him to cover one of Jack's hands with his own. The older man stops with the massage, curling his arms to pull Ianto back against him, the back of his chair digging into Jack's stomach.

"Are you staying here tonight?" Jack presses a light kiss to the shell of Ianto's ear, and his voice goes an octave lower, "Please stay here tonight."

"Jack," Ianto turns his head to receive a light kiss on the lips, "don't ask me that."

His arms tighten around his young lover, "It's nearly midnight anyway. Please, Ianto mine, we'll just sleep."

"You don't need to sleep," he reminds, feeling his heart clench, "you just died yesterday."

Jack presses more kisses against his face, and Ianto squeezes his hands into fists, "Exactly. I just died yesterday, and I want to hold you while you sleep."

Ianto pulls away only so he can stand up and properly pull Jack against him, pressing his nose to his neck to inhale his ridiculous fifty first century hormones. "You're killing me here. Owen's waiting for me at home."

"How long is this going to last?" the older man whispers, "How long until I'm welcome in your home again, until I can hold you all night, until Owen will look me in the eye?"

Ianto doesn't answer, tipping his head to press his lips against Jack's, brushing up against his mind to feel all his grief, his ambivalence about Owen's half life, and the love and longing for Ianto that's always lying just below the surface. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

His phone beeps, and he moves just far enough away to snag it off his desk and flip it open.

Go comfort your bloody boyfriend. If you haven't come home already, it's because he's trying to make you stay and you're trying to think of reasons to let him. Fair warning: I'm going to spend the night re-arranging your library according to the Dewy Decimal system. - OH

Ianto grins as he types back, I hate the Dewy Decimal system. - IJ

I know. - OH

His grin softens into a smile, thinking of the man who's one of the best friends he's ever had. I love you. - IJ

Jack twitches beside him, and Ianto pointedly doesn't look in his direction; it's understood that the two of them don't use that word.

Don't be getting soppy on me, Jones. - OH

Ianto clicks his phone shut before returning to Jack's arms. "Are you sure you just want to sleep tonight?" he murmurs.

Jack laughs, "It's been a long day."

He blinks, "Is this you refusing sex?"

"No," Jack says, working his hands underneath Ianto's work shirt, "It's me asking for cuddling."

 

When Ianto hears the banging from autopsy, he holds in a sigh as he leaves his office, preparing to deal with Owen. When he sees Clara's pretty face red and tear streaked, curled up on the floor and leaning against her desk, he figures that he has the wrong doctor. He slips down beside her, and she doesn't try to hide her tears like she usually would.

"He's so angry," she says finally, hiccupping at the end, "all the time. Not at me, of course, but at everything else. And I feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest every time I look at either of my doctors, because it's just so wrong and not fair, and I'm really glad this happened as opposed to the alternative, but your boyfriend's a moron."

Ianto mentally sheids away from the term boyfriend - how inadequate, for what Jack is to him - but chuckles at the rest, putting an arm around Clara's shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I know, love. You know how Griffin gets when something bad happens."

She sniffles, "I miss you. We miss you."

Ianto blinks, "I'm right here. I see you all for most of the day."

"No, you don't," she pushes away from him, scrubbing at her face. "When we came on board, you were so focused on getting the team up to standard and running this place, that you barely had time to sleep, never mind us. When you weren't training us, or dealing with situations that required we had training, you were on the phone with Director Kale or plotting with Gwen. I thought that when Jack came back, it's be better, but it's not. You're so busy, I don't know, spending half your free time staring into each other's eyes like lovesick puppies, or something, and the other half getting into each other's pants, that you never have time for friends anymore!"

Clara is glaring at him, eyes red, and he's struck speechless, because he hadn't known, how could he have not known? He thought he was getting better at this, on not neglecting those he loves because of Torchwood, but apparently not. When was the last time he spoke to Tegan, or Lillian just for fun? Best not to consider when he last spoke to Rhiannon at all.

"She has a point," Griffin rumbles, and both Ianto and Clara look up to see him standing in front of them, "Owen and I got really close in part because a lot of the time that we used to spend with you wasn't available anymore. I can't even remember the last time we went running."

He's looking back and forth in-between them both, feeling his heart constrict in his chest. Clara must be able to read his guilt and apology in his face, because before he can articulate it, she's returning his earlier kiss with a quick one to his cheek. "Movie night, just us and Owen? Oh, and Tosh." No Jack, no Gwen, no Lois.

"Yeah," he breathes, grateful for this, for his friends, "yeah, let's go."

Work can wait. He has more important things to do.

 

"You're going to lose them!"

Ianto doesn't pay much attention to the teenager screaming her head off at them at first; sometimes they were useful like that. But when they trudge back to find her standing guard over the woman who'd been sucked dry be the Night Travelers, scowling, he pauses.

"I can't believe you," she chides, looking at Jack, "you're getting old."

Clara, Griffin, Gwen, and Owen all hang back, frowning, but when Ianto tentatively brushes over her mind he has to resist the urge to just plant himself on the cement. "Who're you?" Jack asks, and Ianto has made it clear that he has secrets, but he's not a hundred percent sure how he's going to get out of this one.

She snorts, "You're hilarious. Look, this one's a goner, and something's wrong with Base. I tried getting a hold of Shane, and all I could pick up was static. If we can get her in cryogenics fast though, you might convince that husband of yours to save her." Some of her flinty attitude melts, as she trails a finger over one of the young girl's cheeks, "She's not much older than me, after all. You can get him to bend the rules for this can't you?"

Jack's caught on some, but the others not so much, although Clara looks like she's in the middle of piecing it together. "What's the date?"

"Saturday?" she offers with all the exasperation a teenager can manage.

"No," Jack says, and by the flailing and hitting Ianto assumes Clara at least understands a little, "the year."

"Dad," she whines, "this isn't funny, we really have to help this girl, and -" She stops, looks closely at Ianto, and then at the team assembled around them, and says, "Oh."

The rest of her bravado falls away as she wraps her arms around herself, looking very scared and alone. Ianto knows about Alice, that this isn't Jack's first daughter, but Alice is older than Ianto, with a child of her own, and he doesn't quite get the same urge to bundle her up in his arms and hold her safe. Besides, he knows this girl, met her and touched her when she wasn't even fully grown, nestled safe in Jack's stomach.

Jack seems to take the "Dad" in stride, although Ianto pick up the mental waves of him freaking out, and the rest of the team have started their furious whispering.

"5253," she says, "but I can't tell you where. Um, when and where am I?"

"Wales, Earth," Jack says, "2007."

"2007?!" she shrieks, "Oh no, no no no no. I'm really, really not supposed to be here." She's practically shaking, and Ianto can't take this anymore, can't take standing here silently.

He moves to her side, pressing one of his large hands to her face, which up close, under the weak street light, he sees she looks so much like Jack it hurts, and gives her a mental hug, just the same as when she was teeny tiny baby growing in Jack's womb. She sways with it, curling her hand around his wrist and - she's not up to Jack's level, even, and no match for him, but she's still very, very good. "Ianto," she breathes, relaxing, opening eyes neither of them had realized she'd closed and Ianto's struck with the pale perfect blue of them, "Hello."

"Hello," he returns kindly, "a bit lost, aren't you?"

"It's the Rift - I hate these things. They just pop up and drag people and things along for the ride. It's very, very rude." She nuzzles his hand, and says, "Do you like my name? I was thinking of you."

Ianto grins, and finally puts voice to the name that's been rattling around in his brain for nearly a year. "It is a beautiful name, Lisa."

"Do you know her, Ianto?" Tosh asks, and Ianto panics for a moment.

"No," Lisa answers, "well, yes, but no. I know of Ianto, of course."

"Of course," Tosh echoes, "why of course?"

Lisa turns to face them, but is still pressed side to side to Ianto. "Well, he's Dad's, isn't he? Or he was. Or will be," she frowns, "You two are together now, right? I haven't botched up that badly?"

Ianto grins, "Yes, we're together." Jack's looking at him in an intense, penetrating sort of way that he can't explain, and this isn't the time or place for it even if he could.

Lisa steps away from him, turning to the rest of the team, saying, "2007, 2007. So, if this is the 2007 team, we have Tosh and Owen," she touches each of them briefly, and Ianto catches the twitch as she passes over Owen, knowing how off, how wrong he feels to the mental touch, "Gwen," her name is spoken with fondness and familiarity, and Ianto's pleased by that; he would have been jealous before, but not now, "leaving Clara, and Griffin, and," she frowns, eyes flickering over all of them quickly, "Where's Lois? I like Lois. Dad always spoke really well about her."

The team shares a swift look at that, because Jack's current opinion of Lois is that she's hot, and useful, and good at her job, but she's also not made out for Torchwood. His and Ianto's first fight had been about keeping her - Ianto had won.

"She's back at the Hub," Ianto says smoothly, "Where we'll be taking this poor girl, and you. We need to figure out how to get you home. I'm sure Jack's going crazy."

She looks to the Jack of the present for the first time, and Ianto can see she's cataloguing all the differences between this one and her own, and sees the moment when she finds the present Jack lacking. Ianto thinks this might be a tad unfair, seeing as he has a good three or four thousand years to go before he becomes the man who raised her, and, no matter what, he's found Jack only changes with the passage of time so much. "No," she says slowly, "I think he'll be fine. He knows, after all."

Owen groans, "I fucking hate time travel, I'll have you know. Gives me a bloody headache."

"Language, uncle," she says absently, then blanches, looking to both Jack and Ianto who have disbelieving gazes fixed on Owen.

"What?" he says, "Did she swear at me in Jack's language, or something? That is what it was, right?"

She's flushed a bright red, "I don't think I was supposed to do that." She looks up at the sky like she expects it to come collapsing down any moment, which is ridiculous, but Ianto finds himself looking up there as well, half expecting time and the turn of the Earth to stop.

It doesn't and Jack shrugs, "I guess you were."

"Is he very different?" Ianto asks, wondering why Jack hadn't mentioned this when he'd visited Ianto last. Probably hadn't wanted to give away what would happen with Jack and Owen and that bloody Pharm.

"I don't get it," Clara pipes up, "What did she say?"

"She called Owen her uncle," Jack answers, and it takes a moment for that to sink in before they're all turning and staring the undead man, and it's apparent that if Owen could flush, then he would.

"You're less sharp," she says cautiously, still looking up in case the sky falls, "but it's remarkable how much a person doesn't change, given time."

Tosh and Griffin snort while Owen tries to figure out if he's just been insulted. Ianto has a thought, a possibility, that is frankly horrifying. He can live with not being Jack's love forever, with this half relationship with Jack acknowledging he has feelings for Ianto but without a bloody clue what to do with them, and he can even live with the knowledge that he dies young, because that had almost been a given since he joined Torchwood, but if this is where it all ends, fuck the timestream, he's jumping off a bloody cliff.

"No," Lisa says, equally horrified, and Ianto's a little suspicious with how easily she picks up his brainwaves, but he figures apart from her fathers', his was the first mind she'd known, "I said uncle, didn't I? Just - no. Ew. No."

It takes the team another minute to get it, and there's been a rip in the timestream and they're huddled around the body of a teenage girl, so it's completely inappropriate, but they all start laughing anyway, although Jack's glance at Owen is a tad more contemplative than Ianto's absolutely comfortable with.

 

Lisa is clearly half in love with Lois from stories alone, she knows Owen from her present, is as comfortable with Ianto as she is with the undead doctor, and gets along extremely well with the rest of the team, even if she does seem to be clinging to Gwen a little, but the Welshwoman doesn't seem to mind all that much.

Ianto's leaning in the doorframe of Jack's office, watching. "You're not very attractive when you sulk, you know."

"I'm very attractive all the time," he says automatically, but doesn't look up from rubix cube he's turning over in his hand. Ianto walks over to seat himself at the edge of the desk, gently taking the device from his hands and setting aside. Jack's sigh shakes his whole body, and if Ianto wasn't aware that the older man thoughtlessly instilled drama into everything that he did, he'd roll his eyes, "She doesn't like me."

"She doesn't recognize you. I'm sure you'll change a lot in the next couple thousand years - think about how different you are now from when you were mortal."

Jack looks up and scoots his chair forward so he can rest his hands on Ianto's thighs, "How can you say that so casually? I can't even comprehend it. God, I'll probably be all old and wrinkly."

Ianto snorts, widening his legs just a little even though he's aware that now is not the time. Jack started it. "Doubtful. I'm pretty sure the older you get the slower you age, because if you look at the pictures you aged at about half time for the first decade or so, but then it slowed down. You don't seem to have aged at all since the twenties."

Jack hums, running his hands up and down Ianto's legs, "She likes Owen. And you, she really, really likes you. "

Ianto swallows, "She was told stories. Apparently, I make a lasting impact on you, Jack."

Jack's grip settles on Ianto's hips for a moment before he pulls the younger man forward so that he falls into his lap, and Ianto has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Jack presses their mouths together in a soft kiss, "You've made a huge impact, Ianto Jones. I'll never forget you." Jack's voice catches at referencing this thing that they don't talk about, about how Jack has already dealt with Ianto's death during the Year That Never Was (which they haven't talked about either, but he can pick up hints from Jack's mind, and at least it explains why he felt like such crap during the Sunday breakfast he'd had with his team some months ago, he's always been sensitive to the shifts in time), and about how Jack is immortal, and Ianto is not.

Ianto kisses him again, because he knows that this is a lie, and he knows as his relationship with Jack gets stronger it only means that he has less and less time to live, but he's not sure he could have ever considered his existence a life without knowing the feel of Jack's body and mind against his own.

"Ianto," Jack whispers, "I," he takes a deep breath, "I should tell you something,"

"You can tell me anything," he says, laying his hand on Jack's heart so he can feel the deep, steady thrum of it. He likes the sound of heartbeats. Before the Battle, he used to wake up early just so he could press his ear to Lisa's chest and follow the beats of her heart.

Jack presses his face into Ianto's neck, and the Welshman cards his fingers through his hair, trying to think of what could be distressing Jack so much. Honestly, the whole future daughter thing is relatively tame by Torchwood standards, so that can't be it.

Whatever it is, it'll have to wait, because anther alarm goes off and Gwen and Griffin are shouting their names. Bloody hell.

 

"Anything?"

"Quiet," Ianto murmurs, knowing how worried Jack is because he feels the same way, but the questions aren't helping. He'd ask Owen or Griffin to disconnect the damn bloody beeping machines if they weren't their only way of knowing she was alive.

He delves further into Lisa's mind, ignoring the disturbing lack of surface thoughts - even bloody coma patients have them - and going in as far as he can manage, and considering who he is, that's pretty fucking deep. He's almost tempted to give up when he finds it, a small shining blue dot, slow sluggish pulses coming from it. He gives it everything he can, everything he has, she's Jack's daughter and he has to help her, but it's not enough, brightens the little speck just a bit. She needs something he can't give her, and if he could cry this deeply inside another person, he would.

When he comes back to himself, his hands pressed to her temples, he sways and probably would have collapsed on top of Lisa if not for the strong grip both Owen and Griffin have on each of his elbows. "Easy," Owen says, helping guide him into the chair by her beside.

Griffin backs off so Jack can come to Ianto's left side, but Owen's grasp on his shoulder as well as his presence stays firm. The low buzz of Owen's mind - dead and angst filled yes, but also uncomplicated and familiar - soothes some of the strain, and Jack's hand gripped tight in his restores the rest, but he's still bone tired.

"Vitals are up," Griffin reports, "not by much, mind, but they're still up."

Ianto looks down at Jack, who's on his knees beside him, eyes blown wide with fear for his lover and daughter both, and Jesus Christ, do they need a vacation. "Okay?" Jack asks, clearing his throat after the croaking sound that one word produced.

Ianto bends over to kiss Jack on the forehead, Owen's hands trailing down his back with the motion, "I'm fine, cariad," he hadn't meant to say that, damnit, but Jack just leans into his touch, "She's . . . not fine, but she's there. We can fix this, fix her."

Jack breathes out, "What do we need to do?"

"Find the night travelers. They have," he tries to think of the word to describe what Lisa lacks, what it is that keeps her a small little blue dot in her body, as opposed to the beautiful yellow sun she should be, the light and energy that Jack has in spades that makes Lisa his little girl more than blood and DNA ever could.

He doesn't realize he's passed out again until he's awake, Jack's arms around him, Griffin and Owen's voices in his ear, and Gwen's face swimming into his vision.

"Ianto?" she cups his cheek, "Darling, can you hear me?"

"Course," he groans, turning his head so his nose bumps into Jack's neck, and God, does he love those pheromones.

Griffin jerks his head in the other direction, shining a penlight in his eye that has him blinking rabidly. "You really need to stop bloody doing that!"

"Sorry," Ianto says. Before he passes out again.

When he wakes, he's still in the same position, and the arms around his middle are painfully tight. Owen's pushed Gwen aside, has both hands cupping Ianto's face, forcing him to look the other man in the eye. "With us, are you?"

"I'm here," Ianto says, beginning to worry, "Where do I keep going?"

"I don't know," Owen says, and Ianto becomes aware of the fingers pressed to his when Griffin adds, "Pulse is steady though, even if you're pale as death." Owen snorts.

"Let's not use that expression," Jack says, and Ianto can feel the other man's concern, his sheer panic if Ianto's being honest.

"I'm fine," Ianto reassures, "really, just a bit-"

This time when he comes back to awareness, he's in the bed next to Lisa and Jack's got a death grip on his hand. Lois and Tosh are standing at the foot of his bed while Owen and Griffin look at the results the machines are spitting out and argue about it in low voices. He turns his head to the right to see Clara and Gwen seated by Lisa's bed, holding her hands even as they stare at him. He smiles even though it hurts, even though it all hurts.

"Ianto," Jack says, and he turns toward that voice, he loves that voice, beautiful and all he's ever wanted even when it's so clearly filled with pain as it is now. He doesn't like it when Jack's in pain, it's the thing he likes least in the world in fact.

"It's okay," the younger man slurs, and he wants to kiss Jack's hand, or face, or lips, or to give any of the other little touches that they use to reassure and communicate when talking just won't cut it, but he can't make anything move, every part of his body as heavy and numb as lead.

"It's not," Jack says, and his eyes are shining like tears are ready to fall, and Jack can't cry, Ianto hates it when Jack cries. The older man cups Ianto's face with the hand that doesn't have a death grip upon Ianto's own hand, and takes a deep breath before speaking, "You have to let her go."

"Who go?" he nuzzles Jack's hand, not understanding what's wrong. The whole team is there, and they're all fine, everyone's fine, there's nothing to be sad or cry over.

"Lisa," he says, rubbing his thumb over Ianto's cheek, "you're giving her too much. You have to let her go."

Ianto may not be all there right now, but he turns inwards, follows his own energy pattern, sees how all he's giving her is just enough to keep her here, just that much that her sad little blue ball can stay in trembling existence. He opens his eyes, unaware that he'd closed them, to see how pale all three of his men are, his girls to his back.

"Ianto," Griffin says, folding his palm over Jack's, so that they're both holding his hand, "I'm sorry, but you have to stop. It's going to kill you."

He blinks, forcing coherence into his mind and movement into his lips, "She'll die."

"I know," Jack says, and he has to bite his lip to hold it in, but even if he manages to withhold the sobs, the tears leak through, "I know."

"She's your daughter," Ianto says, as if the older man could have forgotten, "she can't die. It's," he's gone again, more of his energy siphoned off into her, and he can see it now, could control it, but he doesn't, gives her everything she takes. Lois is at his other side, hands gripping his shoulder, and Jack lost his battle with the sobs, "It's not allowed. You can't lose more people Jack."

"I'll lose you!" he howls, snot running down his face, and Owen and Griffin looks desperate, desperate to let a teenage girl die.

"Got to happen sometime," Ianto gasps, and oh, he doesn't want it to be now, but it fits, he's half in Jack's arms already, and it would be an appropriate time to gasp out his undying love. If he were to give Lisa everything, absolutely everything, she could probably make it.

"Not now," Jack pleads, "not now, oh god, not now, I'm begging you."

"I can't," he says, eyes drooping, "I have to save her. She's yours Jack, she's you, and I can't have you be all alone."

"I'm not alone," Jack sniffs, "I have you, don't I? But I won't if you don't stop this."

"Future you," he mumbles, "future you has a daughter whom he loves more than anything else in the whole universe, more than present you loves me, and you can't lose her." That's it, he can't hold on any longer, he can last for a bit more, give the team time to save him, but not if he makes himself stay conscious.

He drifts, catches the conversation he doesn't have enough strength to participate in.

"Stop him! Stop him now!"

"Are you mad? I'm good, but Ianto's rating is twice mine."

"HE'S GOING TO DIE!"

"AND WE CAN'T STOP IT! Fucking hell, Jack, we're bloody doctors, but we can't do this. It's not physical, it's mental."

"You could do it, Jack."

"What?"

"Tosh?"

"You have the next highest rating after Ianto, and you're immortal - limitless life energy. You can't go into Lisa's mind, adding another signal to her will just mess everything up. But, theoretically, you could connect with Ianto's, give him the energy that he's losing to Lisa."

"I can't do that if he doesn't let me. Ianto goes into my mind like the rest of us walk into a room, but if he doesn't want me in, I'm not getting in."

"Jack, if there's one person in this bloody room who Ianto's not going to block out, it's you."

"Gwen, it doesn't always work like that."

"What are so afraid of? What's worse than Ianto dying?"

"It's just that, there are things, in my mind, and they're not good. If I'm that deep into Ianto, I won't be able to control them."

"Bloody hell, Harkness, we can deal with a few motherfucking nightmares, now save your goddamn boyfriend."

He's not aware of it at first, but then he is, Jack's mind pushing into his, so much deeper than ever before, a thousand times more intimate than any of the times Jack's been inside him on a more physical level. He should fight against it, there are things he knows that Jack can't, he just can't, it'll ruin everything, but it feels so good, to have Jack intertwined within him, he can feel his waning strength returning with every second they're together.

Ianto?

He feels himself forming, finding a mental body being made in this mental plane. It's not his own mind, the great big space that has everything he is hidden in constellations that aren't in any book, nor is it the filing cabinets of Jack's head, but an empty dark room that is an in between. I'm here.

Jack's there too, meeting Ianto halfway in a run, wrapping the younger man in his arms as he clings just as desperately to Jack, Thank fucking god. Don't scare me like that.

I had to save her. She's your daughter Jack, he protests, breathing in the scent of Jack which shouldn't exist in their minds, and yet does.

I know. I know. I was so fucking scared, Ianto.

You shouldn't be. Jack, I'm going to die. Maybe not today, but it will happen. You can't let it get to you like this, Ianto doesn't want to bring this up, not now, but it has to be said. He keeps on almost dying, it could really be any day now, so they have to talk about this.

Jack presses Ianto even closer against him, as impossible it seems, Can't let it get to me? Are you mad? I lo - care about you, so much it hurts, and you expect me to just accept that you'll die? I can't.

You have to, he says, pressing soft kisses to his neck, rubbing soothing circles in his back. He's attuned to Jack in the worst psychic conditions, which these are not. There's barely a drag time between Jack experiencing an emotion and Ianto getting the backlash. 

I BLOODY WELL DO NOT, he snarls, pressing Ianto away with tight grip in his shoulders, his face the same ghostly shade it's been since Lisa first got attacked. Ianto can feel his rage, and his grief.

Jack.

He sighs, goes back to hugging Ianto, his chin resting atop his head, I'm sorry.

I ... care about you too, Ianto says, which is very much the understatement of the century, but now is not the time. He wonders about how much the knowledge that as soon as he tells Jack he loves him, he dies, has affected their relationship. But Jack, I shouldn't mean this much to you, more than your own flesh and blood.

Ianto, Ianto, Ianto, he chants, and they're being pulled somewhere, somewhere else in a swirl of color. Ianto doesn't recognize it, but Jack does, by the way he's shouting, No! Not here, not this, let's go. Ianto, we have to go.

But Ianto thinks he can see Jack, in this place where everything looks like it's watercolor, and he would respect this, because god knows he has secrets of his own, but then he sees, Gwen? and he has to see this, has to know where this leads, why a memory with Gwen makes Jack scream and cry.

He touches the wall, hears Jack yelling, but it's too late, because the scene solidifies around him even as Jack's voice becomes muffled.

Jack's tied up, dirty and clothes hanging off of him while his wrists are shackled to the wall.

"I've been holding them, gathering them up for you," the Master, Saxxon, purrs, and Ianto sees them all on their knees before him, his team, their team.

"Let them go!" Jack demands, pulling his hands against the restraints. They've all got their heads bowed except for Gwen, staring at Jack with her large liquid eyes.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Saxxon says. "You should be proud of them, even the new ones did fairly well. It's taken me nearly this whole year to get this complete set."

"Please," the desperate, shattered tone in Jack's voice breaks Ianto's heart, "please, don't do this. Do whatever you want to me, I'll cooperate, I swear, just let them go."

"Oh," he tilts back Clara's head, her green eyes shining with hate, "but that won't do. They've been a bit of a thorn in my side, you understand, aiding our dear Martha in her foolhardy quest and giving people hope, especially this one, so loyal to the Doctor, a man she's never even met. We just can't have that. However, if you beg, oh so prettily, I'll make their deaths quick."

"No," Jack shakes his head, "don't, please."

"All right," Saxxon says, smile stretched across his face, "you can kill them instead."

There's silence, and Ianto watches this, and he knows it's not real anymore, it never happened, but the pain in Jack's eyes is very, very real. "I can't."

"Then they'll suffer," he shrugs, "you know how inventive I can be, I'll drag it out for days, weeks even, if they're strong."

Jack's gaping, faced with this impossible choice, but Tosh, smart, brave Tosh, makes if for him when she raises her head and says, voice firm even as her hands shake, "If I am to die today, Jack, I'd rather it be by your hand than his."

One by one they follow, raising their heads to silently show their agreement, Ianto last.

"Well, well," Saxxon murmurs, "so be it." He snaps his fingers and the chains restraining Jack are released, but the two dozen guns trained on him stop him from doing anything. One of the guards offers him a gun. "Eight bullets. Better make them all count."

Jack swallows, looking at them all, stricken. Clara is the first to rise, standing in front of Jack with her head held high, "I'm Clara Oswald, a friend of Ianto's. I've heard a lot about you, and I'm sorry we couldn't have met in better circumstances."

"Me too," Jack says, curving an arm around her waist even as he raises the gun to her temple, kissing her hard on the lips as he fires, holding her slumped body close for a moment before lowering it to the ground.

Griffin practically runs to stand in front of Jack, his face stone even as tears cover his face, "Hello."

"Hello," Jack says, offering him the same treatment, "Lover?"

"Yes," he whispers before Jack fires and he goes limp. He gently lowers his body so it's resting against Clara's.

Ianto watches, as Jack goes through them all. Lois stands with her back to Jack so she can look at him, the him kneeling on the floor, in the eyes as she dies, so she can see her favorite person as her last sight. Then it gets worse for Jack, harder, as he pulls Tosh into a tight hug, pressing kisses atop her head. She tells him it's okay, over and over, until she chokes out halfway through a syllable with a bullet lodged in her brain. Jack's sobbing by the time Owen walks over, and the brittle doctor's face is kind as he lets Jack manhandle him, saying only, "I forgive you," as his last words.

Jack then looks at Gwen and Ianto, and he swallows again.

"These two are special," Saxxon announces.

"They were all special."

"Extra special then," he says, "I caught these two just last night - they had broken in! So clever, these two are, except for the part where they ran to me instead of away."

Jack looks at them, eyes wide, and it's Gwen who says, "We were hoping to save you. Obviously, we make a shoddy rescue team."

"I've had worse," he sniffs, letting out a deep shuddering breath when Ianto cocks an eyebrow.

Gwen gets up, using one arm to wrap around Jack's waist, and placing her fingers atop his curved around the trigger, pulling it up to put it against her temple before whispering, "I wouldn't trade it, not for anything, not a second of it," and pulling her own trigger, sparing Jack in the only way she can.

He's a mess when Ianto sees himself stand and walk to him, kissing Jack likes he's the best thing in the whole world, because he is. "I love you," Ianto hears himself say, pressing his head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, "so, so much."

"I love you too," Jack replies, pressing more soft, delicate kisses over Ianto's face, "I'm sorry about the shoddy timing," he has to pause twice in that sentence in order to bite back sobs.

Ianto smiles, "Better late than never," and he's grabbing Jack's hand with the gun and shooting it, but not at his head, at his chest.

"Ianto!" Jack drops to the floor, cradling Ianto in his arms, "God, what are you doing? You're in pain."

"Gives us a few more minutes," Ianto gasps, "before I bleed out. Seemed a fair trade."

"No," Jack says, weeping over him, "nothing is fair, not anymore."

"Hey," Ianto murmurs, reaching up a bloody hand to cup Jack's dirty cheek, "don't talk like that. You'll fix it, I believe in you."

"Why?!" the older man demands, anguished, and Ianto slides up his bloody hand to Jack's temple, delving into the other man's mind in his last moments so that Jack doesn't just have his words , but can sense, and feel, and know how much Ianto loves him, how he's the best thing that's ever happened to him, how he's a fantastic leader, his hope for the future, and a good man.

Then he dies.

Ianto gasps, the scene in front him dissolving into nothing even as Ianto feels Jack's arms curl around him, Oh, god.

I didn't want you to see that, Jack murmurs in his ear, I didn't want you to know.

Too late, he says, holding tightly to the arms encircling his waist, Why didn't you tell me?

I didn't want you to know, he says again, I wanted to protect you from all that.

Don't, he says, I need to know these things, these things that hurt you.

Why? he asks.

What a stupid question, So I can destroy whatever it is, and if I can't, I can at least be there for you. I'll always be there for you.

Oh, Jack breathes against his neck, ok.

It's just then that Ianto realizes that apparently it is possible to cry even this deep within the mind.

 

It's harder to focus here, harder to hold on to thoughts and feelings, to remember what memories belong to which person. The longer their twined together like this, the harder Ianto has to work at keeping at bay all the things that Jack can't know. He feels Jack doing the same, and doesn't begrudge him it.

By mutual agreement, they don't go anywhere near Lisa, as knowing the future never ends well. Ianto is plagued by what little knowledge he has already. But still, the pull is there, if not for Ianto then at least for Jack. And Ianto doesn't have much control here, stretched as he is between Jack and Lisa, and if the team doesn't figure something out soon, he's going to lose it.

He leans into Jack, sitting shoulder to shoulder on this ground that doesn't really exist, in this place which shouldn't be anything close to real, but is. He doesn't know if Jack's thinking the same thing as he is, or if Jack's just skimming his surface thoughts, but he says, Should we be able to do this? I don't think we should.

How do you mean? he shifts his head so it's tipped against Jack's.

Minds shouldn't be able to meld like this. I can't even find a seam to pick at, or anything.

Ianto shrugs, We get on well, apparently.

Jack twitches beside him, and Ianto feels his unease, Not like this. I don't think I could have melded this well with my own mother.

Ianto has always felt like this with Jack, like he could be in his mind, against it and around it, forever, like it settles something deep inside him. Tegan's mind is like going on vacation, and Jenny's doesn't really count since she isn't like any other person he's met - well, like one, maybe - and Gwen's feels like warm, milky coffee. Clara and Griffin are clearly made for each other since each of their minds feels like running water, and Tosh is like a giant clock with a lot of gears, and Owen smooth metal, with jagged bits on the end. They are all different, but all are comforting to him. Jack's is just the best.

He's saved from having to explain this by the sharp tug he feels, and he has an instant of panic before he recognizes the mental signature and goes with it, even as Jack's face pales.

When he wakes up, real and whole and in his own body, he's relieved to find that he feels almost back to normal, with just the dredges of tiredness pulling at his eyelids.

"Ianto!"

He looks, blinking at Lois's wide smile, "Hello."

"How are you?" Gwen asks eagerly, smoothing a hand across his brow.

"Fine," he pushes himself upright, and Tosh makes a sound of distress, but doesn't try to stop him. He looks to the bed beside him, and blinks, but the two Jacks are still there, one his, and the other from the future, he knew. His Jack is standing and staring at his older counterpart, who has Lisa tucked under his arm up against his side. "Lisa."

She pulls herself from her father to dart to him as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, wrapping her arms around his ribcage and pressing her forehead against his sternum. He returns the hug, feeling something tug sharply at him at the sound of her sniffles. "Thank you," she says, and he lets the warmth of his affection siphon into her mind, his lack of regret, and how he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

She shudders, and clumsily returns the sentiment, of how she's carried Ianto with her her entire life, how her father loves Ianto still, and that she aches for him, for every pain of his, because she loves him in the simple, uncomplicated way that children do now just as she had in shakily reaching out to him from Jack's stomach.

Ianto gives her one last squeeze, one last silent declaration of love, before pulling back and turning to her father. "Jack."

The older man closes the distance between them in the breath it takes Ianto to say his name, and then his mouth is against Ianto's , hot and hungry and desperate. He locks his arms around Jack's neck, and tries not to feel too much like he's in a harlequin novel. "Thank you," he breathes, pressing soft, delicate kisses to his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. "I knew you would, of course, but I was driving myself mad thinking of all that could go wrong. I should have known better - you always protect me."

"I always protect mine," Ianto corrects, aware of his Jack's sharp gaze, but willing to ignore it for now. "You are mine, no matter when, and so are your children, and any person that you hold dear."

"Of course," the older Jack says and kisses him again, slow.

When they break, he looks to the rest of the team, meeting each of their gazes with a smile, and even going so far as to lean into Gwen to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. Then he's entering co-ordinates into his vortex manipulator and grabbing his daughter so they disappear into the familiar swirl of golden lights.

"Ianto?" he turns, meeting Griffin and Owen's concerned eyes, and he shrugs, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Time traveling lovers. Best to just go with the flow, honestly."

There's a moment of awkward smiles and furtive looks, but then it's a like a damn has broken, and they're all laughing, a touch hysterical, and pressing themselves against Ianto, skimming hands over his shoulders and back, grasping him when they can, open relief on all their faces. He'll hear the story of how they trapped the Ghostmakers later, about the future Jack's sudden appearance, but now he's just happy to be alive and here with his team.

Jack stands apart from them, eyes dark, and Ianto knows he'll have to deal with this later, but it will keep.

 

Ianto lets Jack come to him, so it's nearly a week later, sitting at his desk and on the phone that Jack sits across from him, with the same half mulish look that's been on there since Lisa and his older self had left.

"Ianto?"

He blinks, pulling himself back, "Sorry, kua’ana, I got distracted. You were telling me about Kai's birthday party, he's turning eleven right? That'd make Luke thirteen and May about four?"

"That's right - they've been asking after you. I don't think you've managed to come around in close to three months."

Ianto winces, because it been closer to four, and he's sure Tegan knows that, "Sorry, works been, well, work. I'll be there on Saturday, promise. I'll make Jack take over if need be."

The other man glares at him, but Ianto winks and Jack, even with the mood he's been in, cracks a smile.

"Why don't you bring him?"

Ianto blinks, "What?"

"You've been dating this guy for over a year, and whenever his name is mentioned, you look like you want to kill something or burst into song. You seem pretty serious about him, and nobody's ever met the guy. Bring him."

"Uh," he hesitates, eyes sliding over the other man, and Jack frowns, "I don't know if that's the best idea. It's just, that's kind of combining my work and personal life, which is something we agreed we wouldn't do."

There's a beat of silence before Tegan says, voice dry, "Yan, you're fucking your boss. I think that line is well and truly crossed."

Ianto flushes, but shrugs, "I'll ask him, but I promise nothing."

"Fair," his brother concedes, "I'll call you either tomorrow or the next day. Love you."

"Love you too," Ianto says as always, and as always feels that clench that this is how his brother insists they end all of their conversations, no matter what, just in case. He puts his phone back on his desk, sighing, before looking up. "Yes?"

"What are you asking me?"

"Later," the younger man dismisses, "you've been thinking about something recently."

Jack nods, and in an odd role reversal, moves from the chair to sitting on the edge of Ianto's desk. He leans back, but settles a hand on Jack's thigh. "When the future me came to get Lisa, he looked at you like . . . not how I look at Estelle, or John, or anyone else. I'd already figured out that you're different, from my past lovers, but now, knowing for sure that you'll always be - different, I hate the thought of losing what time we have. And I know that I'm different for you too, I could feel it, so I was thinking. That we already spend so much time at work together, that the only way we could spend more is if we went home together. All the time. On purpose."

Jack must sense he's babbling then, because he snaps his mouth shut, and just his chin forward like a challenge, and Ianto cannot believe that Jack has been worried and upset over this like there was any doubt that at all what his response would be.

"Jack Harkness, are you asking to move in with me?"

The stubborn set tightens even more at Ianto's teasing, but he still grits out, "Yes."

"Okay."

Jack blinks, "What?"

"After everything, Owen has officially forgiven you, and he's spending more time with Tosh anyway. Jack, I told you when you came back, I belong to you. You're welcome in my home, to make it our home, just as you're welcome in my mind." He likes the way that Jack's eyes widen at that, at how he holds on to the desk that much tighter.

"You belong to me?" Jack asks in Boeshane, curving a hand against Ianto's cheek.

"Body, mind, heart, and soul," he swears in return, and wishes that they were in a place where these words meant more, were at the beaches of Jack's home, where these words would be bind them with intent, would show their love like an engagement ring would now.

Jack kisses him, just like he would if they were at an intent ceremony, and as Ianto kisses back, he thinks of the word they don't use, and why they don't use it. Well, Ianto knows why he doesn't use it. He knows why Jack doesn't use it either, when the last time he said it Ianto was dying in his arms. He doesn't think this can be healthy, and knows, knows, that this will fuck up Jack later, when the only time they've used the word 'love' is when Ianto's minutes from death. But Jack doesn't know that now, and has it illogically stuck in his head that if he tells Ianto he loves him, then he's giving him permission to die.

They break and settle forehead to forehead, and Ianto sees it in his eyes, the word that they don't use, and he doesn't need it, not when he has all this, but he can't help but think it's all going to blow up in Jack's face when he dies.

They still have time. Not as much as Jack's probably hoping, but time. Nothing will be solved with him worrying about this today.

So he presses another quick, chaste kiss to Jack's lips and says, "Meet my brother's family on Saturday."

"Help me move in tomorrow," he says, eye crinkled in the corners in the way that only happens when he's truly happy.

"Deal," he says, feeling the same word murmured against his lips when he kisses him again.


	11. Beginning of Part XI and Outline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's time I accept the fact that as much as I loved writing this fic and as amazing as it was, I'm never going to finish it. I'm not as into TW as I used to be, and I'm sorry I couldn't complete this for you guys. But here's the beginning of this chapter I wrote 3 years ago and the outline for the rest.

**Part XI**

"You have to tell them."

Jack glares, eyes softening as Ianto places a cup of coffee in his hands. "I didn't hear you get up."

The younger man, in nothing more than his boxers, sits next to him and folds his legs beneath him like a child. "I noticed. Clara and Gwen aren't going to let this go you know. They're possibly the most stubborn out of a group of stubborn people."

"You know what happened to that kid. You know that it'll hurt them - it'll hurt them all."

Ianto raises an eyebrow, "Oddly, I was under the impression that the people we employ are seasoned adults. Maybe I should go take over UNIT instead."

"You know what I mean," he snaps, "not everyone is like you and I. Or even Owen, bless his non beating heart. There's a bit of a difference between killing hostile aliens and locking up collateral damage."

Ianto holds up a hand, "It's your call, but they're going to figure it out, tell everyone, and then we're both going to look like huge asses."

Jack puts his coffee on the end table before pinning himself against Ianto in one quick movement, glad he hadn't bothered to change out of his pajamas as he feels the skin of their chests pressed together. "Come now, Director Jones," he purrs, "you don't have the urge to boss me around even a little?"

Ianto's lips quirk even as the anxiety remains in his eyes. "That's harassment, Sir."

 

He can feel a headache building behind his eyes, "Mark, I'm happy to help, you know I am, but why aren't you going to Lillian with this? She's way better at languages than I am, and this is directly in her jurisdiction."

 There's a pause on the other end of the line before the older man answers, "I did. Two weeks ago. She's been a little buried lately, and stuff is getting backed up."

Now there really is an ache between his eyes, "I haven't heard of this - it certainly isn't reflected within the reports."

"We've been trying to keep it on the down low, sir," he says, strained, "I know we should have called you from the beginning but we figured she was just having a bad week, which turned into a bad month, and it's nearing on three months of this now, sir."

Ianto's quiet for a moment, "I'll figure something out; thank you for telling me. Send the code to me, and I'll have something for you within forty eight hours."

"Thank you sir," Mark says before hanging up. Ianto places the phone back in its cradle, and rubs a hand against his brow.

 "That doesn't look good," Ianto looks up to see Tosh leaning against the doorway, and a smile blooms across his face.

"No, not really. I'll figure it out. Do you need something?"

She shrugs, coming into his office and sitting in one of the chairs across from his desk, "Not really. I set Mainframe on analyzing the rising spikes in Rift energy - according to John's calculation, they should have begun to plateau by now, but they've only gotten worse. There's nothing I can do until the program's done running, and Clara and Gwen are downstairs doing their thing. Also, Clara wants to take next Thursday off, but is still giving you and Jack the silent treatment for keeping her in the dark."

Ianto smirks, "We don't know anything."

Tosh flicks one of the pens from his desk at him, "Don't be a dick. You and Jack with your secrets - but you have your reasons, I suppose. I trust you."

Ianto smiles, thinks of the paperwork he was in the middle of, the code he offered to translate, the issue with Lillian, and how he still has to finish cataloguing the artifacts from the recent Rift dump, and says, "Let's go out for lunch. They can probably survive for a few hours without us."

Her face brightens, and he feels better. Tosh, and her uncomplicated love and acceptance. He should introduce her to Tegan - they'd be good friends with the way they love simply.

Christmas is coming up. That might do.

 

"Do not tell me I told you so," Jack snarls, back to him and shoulders impossibly tight.

"I would never," he says simply. He's also fighting the completely inappropriate thrill that when Jack had felt upset and alone, he'd gone to their home first. Now is not the time.

He reaches forward, sliding the coat off of Jack's shoulders before wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing a soft kiss to his neck as he quickly undid the buttons of his dress shirt and tossing it on top of the coat. He settles his hands on Jack's shoulders then, pressing in with his shoulders and digging in with his thumbs, just like the Jack of the future had taught him. Jack gasps, then groans, half in pain and half in relief. They stand like that for a few moments before Jack turns into Ianto's arms, "They hate me."

"Don't be ridiculous - they're confused, and scared, but they trust you. They're a bit rattled, but they'll get over it. Owen and Griffin already are, to be honest - they're more upset about the fact that we kept it from them, with them being doctors and all, than at the fact that we did it."

"The others?"

"Gwen and Clara are pissed, and probably drunk, and there's really nothing we can do about that but ride it out."

Jack sighs, melting more into Ianto's arms, "I don't like this."

Ianto presses a kiss to his temple, "If there's one thing I've learned in life is that you've got to take the rough with the smooth."

Jack laughs, holds him a bit tighter, and thankfully doesn't ask which category he falls into.

 

Lois poked her head around the corner, "Jack's ready to hurt people."

Ianto looks up, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes, "What?"

"You've been down here for almost thirty six hours. Clara and Griffith have been distracting him best they can, but between your absence and Gwen running off to play wife, he looks haggard. Plus Tosh keeps running that program over and over, and looks paler each time. Jack hasn't noticed that yet, but Owen has, and he's been going out to buy her Starbucks every six hours. Jack's just not all there - he's not used to doing all this, since you do so much, and he's so out of it he looks ready to kill himself so he won't feel so tired," Lois rattles this off in exasperation, but her grip on the clipboard is tight and her shirt just a little less than perfectly straight. She cares for Jack, if only because Ianto does and Ianto's her favorite.

Ianto breathes out slow, looks at all the work he's completed and all he still has to do and says, quietly, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Lois edges in past the doorway, and when she doesn't get yelled at settles herself in the chair across from his desk, "Sir?"

He lays his head in his hands, "Lillian isn't pulling her weight. She never wanted to be in charge, it's taking its toll, and we can't run an organization like this."

She doesn't know what to say, knows just enough about Torchwood to know the solution, and more than enough about Ianto to understand why it drives him to this. She leans forward, wrapping one slender hand around his wrist and says, "He loves you. Enough to wait."

He chokes, on laughter and something else, as she comforts him over the fears he hasn't voiced. When he raises his head and his eyes are red she does him the courtesy of not flinching. "How do you know?"

"Because he looks at you like you look at him, and I may not understand him but I know you." That probably says more about her than she'd like to admit but - Jack is pretty, and Owen has his appeal, but Ianto Jones is the most incredible man she's ever met and she'll follow him to hell and back if need be. Follow him all the way to London and, inevitably, follow him back.

Ianto twist her grip so he can kiss a fingertip, looks at her with the love he has for all his team, with the love she has for all her team, and yet just that much more of people who understand what it's like to go by unnoticed, to be invaluable and yet unseen. "Let's not go there, just yet, hmm? This may work out in our favor."

Lois smiles, and because he's never lied to her, let's him lie to himself.

 

He's wrapped up in Jack's arms, in their bed, when his phone starts going off at some God awful hour - oh, or two in the afternoon, but he just got to bed four hours ago, so it counts.

Jack hadn't died this time and so is as exhausted as the rest of them and likely more considering the stunts he pulled. He groans, groping vainly for his lover's waist as Ianto simultaneously flicks the phone open and runs a hand through Jack's hair.

"Hello?" he pulls the bedroom door closed behind him, heading to the coffee machine on instinct even though he just really wants to crawl back into bed.

"Ianto?"

A smile stretches across him mouth, "Tegan. Hey. How're things?"

"I'm an idiot."

He's debating the breakfast blend verses the dark roast - his stomach is empty and breakfast blend would probably be best since he isn't planning on eating, but - he's _tired_ and if he has to be up he deserved the dark roast, the _Columbian_ dark roast, goddamnit.  "I think it's genetic - but it can't be too bad, Jenny's birthday isn't for another two weeks."

"That's not - wait, her birthday is in two weeks? Seriously?"

Ianto laughs into the phone, letting the coffee brew. He gives in and sees if they have any bread for toast, "Yep. Shocking how it's on the same day every year."

Tegan huffs, "Shut up. Anyway, that wasn't what I was talking about. I'm an idiot because _Torchwood_."

Ianto feels his stomach drop down to his knees, and dear God is he glad that it's the Columbian beans brewing. "What?"

"That's what you're mixed up in, isn't it? It's so obvious, I seriously can't believe I didn't notice."

Ianto closes his eyes and thinks about giving it up then and there, but his training is too ingrained, "How do you mean?"

"You fight them, don't you?"

For one bizarre moment, Ianto can hear his blood in his veins and the beat of his heart all while he loses the ability to stand, "What?"

"Their some sort of vigilante group that the government is trying to control, right? I mean, you can't really confirm that, I guess, but I'm right aren't I?"

"I have to go," Ianto says, mouth numb, even as his brother crows his triumph into the phone.

He sits there for a moment, staring at the wall until the scent of burnt toast and perfect coffee reaches his nostrils. He throws out the toast - his appetite is gone anyway - and pours himself a cup of coffee as he flips through his phone’s contacts.

 

 

 

There is Another Sky Outline 

 

**Part XI**

\- Covers everything from 'Adrift' to 'Exit Wounds'

\- Claris and Griffin end up getting killed off, not Owen and Tosh.

\- Owen takes this very hard as after Ianto, Griffin was his best friend. He and Tosh draw strength from eachother, and their bond grows.

\- Lillian begins leaning on Ianto more and more as she begins to feel tired and uninspired with her work. In return, Ianto begins to feel even more bogged down with work.

\- Adrift: both Claris and Gwen investigate. Ianto had kept it a secret as leader more as a habit than anything else.

\- Brought up that Jack has basically moved in with Ianto.

-Grey is controlling John when everything goes to hell, and they try to stop him, but fail. In response, Owen proposed to Tosh and Lillian quits as Director, meaning Ianto has to move to London to take on the position of Leader of Torchwood One full time.

 

**Part XII**

\- Opens with Ianto in the office, very late at night, dealing with trouble of running Torchwood when Jack calls, and they have a weary/happy conversation where he asks how Martha's working out, and how his family is doing.

\- Ianto reconciles with his sister at some point

\- Show Ianto's day to day. Lois has followed him to London and Rachel's husband has joined. Conversation with rest of team.

\- When CoE thing starts, he and Jack are all freaked out, but they do a pretty good job of hiding it from everyone else.

\- Things go as normal, except that Ianto gets Tegan to agree to him using his nephews so that Jack has no reason to contact Alice.

\- Government still tries to use Alice and Stephan as bargaining chips, but Ianto foresaw this, and sent an agent to get them, whom arrives and saves them in the middle of the alleyway scene.

\- Ianto feels pulled in two by his responsibilities - London and Cardiff - so he calls Jenny, asking if she'll come and handle things while he goes to Cardiff. She tries to act dumb, but he tells her he's known who she was for years (the Doctor’s daughter!), so can she do this please? She agrees, impressed and amused.

\- Lois tries to go with Ianto, but he says that he needs someone whom he can trust, who knows him and how he runs Torchwood to help Jenny, and she agrees to stay, but she's not happy about it.

\- Ianto goes back, meeting up with Jack after alerting him that he was on his way, and that his family was safe.

\- Things go like in episode, except with Tosh and Owen running around.

\- Death scene same, Ianto chocking out his love for Jack, and completely opening his mind to him for the first time so that he can actually feel the depth of his, dying as he keeps repeating "you, only you, forever you."

 

**Part XIII**

\- Ianto wakes up in the Tardis, and sees the 10th Doctor peering down at him, concerned and delighted.

\- He's confused and scared, and the Doctor explains that he grabbed Ianto's bod and threw it in the Rift in order to stabilize it. Ianto doesn't understand how that did anything, so the Doctor goes into his mind to show rather than tell, and unlocks his memories.

-Ianto remembers how when he was eight, he slipped through the Rift and landed in Gallifrey, before the war. Spent nearly a year there, with the Doctor and his family (knows his real name!) and followed the other eight year olds to the timestream. When the Doctor found him, standing calmly with his eyes closed, he's thought for sure the Vortex would have driven him insane. + He gripped the little boy's forearms, and Ianto would have struggled had he the presence of mind to do so. "Ianto," the Doctor asks urgently, "What do you see?" "What do I hear," the boy corrects. "What do you hear?" the anxious Timelord repeats. "The heartbeat." "Of what?" "Everything," Ianto opens his eyes, and the Doctor makes a strangled sound at the Eternity he sees in the boy's eyes, "Don't you hear it?" +

\- Ianto's immortal, but differently than Jack because he can bend time, so he lives or dies, ages or doesn't, as he chooses. He can exist in any place where there is time. The beat of his heart is synced perfectly with the pulses of the timestream, and Ianto's ability to the feels the shifts and bends of time makes him the closest thing to a Timelord that there'll ever be again.

\- Ianto agrees to travel with the Doctor while he gets a better grasp on his abilities.

\- Jenny runs Torchwood for the couple of weeks of his absence (years and years to Ianto) and the Doctor informs him that Jack has left Earth following his death.

\- The Tardis responds well to Ianto, and they end up on Boeshane about 100 years before Jack's birth. + "Well, I already know the language." +

 

**Part XIV**

\- Chronicles the Doctor and Ianto's adventures

\- Ianto's OCD-ness bleeds into the Tardis. She loves it, but the Doctor is horrified.

\- Ianto's favorite room is the library, swimming pool included, where he and the Doctor are relaxed and comfortable and do not necessarily need to talk.

\- The Doctor likes simply touching Ianto because it strengthens their mental connection, and he really likes that he's not alone in his head anymore.

\- Planet where Ianto falls for a pretty girl alien, but they have to leave. The Doctor offers to leave his here for a while, but Ianto refuses, saying he likes being with the Doctor. This leads to a conversation about losing those you love.

\- Planet where Ianto refuses to leave until the mess is cleaned. They fight over it.

\- Jenny calls periodically to tell him what's going on.

\- Ianto is there when the Doctor changed from 10 to 11, bur Ianto gets knocked into the timestream while the Doctor gets knocked into Amelia's yard. When he leaves for 5 min, he's really going to go get Ianto. They have an emotional goodbye, with Ianto doing his best to soothe the new, whirling mind of the Doctor. They spend a couple of days getting him together.

\- Ianto asks to be dropped off at home, saying that a very lonely little girl is waiting to be taken on an adventure.

 

**Part XV**

\- Tearful reunion with team, who'd been told he was alive, but had a hard time believing it before he was standing in front of them.

\- Gwen is more than happy to release control to Ianto, since she's expecting, but there are a couple of things he as to do first.

\- Before he goes, he uses his psi ability combined with his grasp on time to move Owen's body (which has taken a beating) back to a time when it was alive while keeping his mind intact.

\- He goes to Glasglow to talk to T2 about how he wants to expand and get Torchwood House up and running. Archie's all for it.

\- He then goes to Dublin, where he informs Torchwood Four that they're coming out of hiding whether they like it or not. He's going to make Torchwood on cohesive organization if it kills him.

-Focus on problems of integrating 4 branches. Jenny and family move to Dublin to take over, while Owen gets Cardiff, not that he's much more use than Gwen what with Tosh expecting their son. Lillian runs Torchwood House.

\- Meeting with Queen where Ianto discusses changing Torchwood's charter, and why, and how they need to start co-operating, or at least acknowledge, other countries' equivalent to Torchwood, as the CoE debacle clearly showed.

\- Lois follows him wherever he goes, and she learns everything he has to teach her. She eventually ends up running T1 when Jenny’s had enough.

\- About ten tears after Ianto 'died' the thousand year old Jack shows up, the exact same Jack that had left Ianto after Canay Warf. He's still as broken as when he left so it takes him a while to get into the swing of relationships again, but he manages.

\- Owen doesn't age or die, since Ianto allowed Time to touch him, and he and Tosh have three more children. Gwen has two in total, but ends up being a foster parent.

\- SO MUCH TOTAL DOMESTIC FLUFF

\- It's about 70 years later, when Ianto feels a break in the timestream, and runs from his bed in the middle of the night and starts scribbling ideas for what he wants to do. Jack walks out to find him surrounded by paper. "What are you doing?" "I'm turning over leadership of Torchwood to  Lois. Or Owen. Or Jenny, if he doesn't want it, or you, if you do." " _What_?" "I need to start something else. You know what." "I don't have a - oh. Yeah, I think I do. " "See?" "Tell me anyway?" "Something to keep the timestream safe and stable. Something to protect the world. The Time Agency."

\- If anyone hasn't figured it out yet, make it really, really clear that Ianto Jones from the future, "the one with the powerful name", is the Ianto Jones of the present, and he's Jack's husband and father of his child and they have TOTAL TWOO LOVE, LIKE WOAH

 

Also: in the sequel that I will never write but I outlined on real paper somewhere it’s revealed that Ianto still runs the Time Agency five hundred years in the future, John knew who Ianto was from that very first meeting and at some point he runs into future Jack and makes fun of him for it _forever_. Ianto and young Jack have sex when he’s still just a young recruit, and Jack gets knocked up – that’s the time that he was pregnant before. Ianto asks Jack to keep the child, saying that he’ll raise it and Jack will know him. Ianto’s not _lying_ , but the Jack who has the child and the Jack that raises the child are a couple millennia apart. Shane (their son) and Lisa end up being raised together even though they’re both technically born so far apart. Owen is still kicking around, and so’s the Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic, and that knowing how it ends up is satisfying enough for your guys. Thank you for all the amazing reviews and kudos and everything!


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